


Hellhound on my Trail

by justanotherblond, PottersPink



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Folklore, Grief/Mourning, Hellhounds, Horror, M/M, Minor Character Death, NASBB 2020, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Not Another Stucky Big Bang, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Religious Guilt, Small Towns, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Hunters, Suspense, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, graphic depictions of death, some gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 70,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27053884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherblond/pseuds/justanotherblond, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PottersPink/pseuds/PottersPink
Summary: After Steve’s ma died, he vowed to never return to his hometown of Canton, New York. Not because of the hellhounds his mother swore lived in their woods, but to avoid the constant ridicule the townsfolk gave him and his ma.But five years after moving to the city, his roommate Peggy convinces him to return to Canton to sell his mother’s house. He thinks it will be fine; there’s no such thing as hellhounds and everyone in town must have forgotten about him anyway.Only people have been going missing. His friend Sam believes it’s due to the couple that just moved into town, the cops think it’s coincidental, and Steve suspects it might have something to do with the creature that’s been growling outside his house every night.[A story of asthma attacks, morose kitties, sober bartenders, couples with bad body odor, and the mysterious, recluse, long-haired hunter who lives far out in the woods.]
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 79
Kudos: 199
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Long time, no see. 
> 
> This story has literally been over a year in the making and I am beyond excited to finally share it with you all! 
> 
> I would like to give special thanks to my two beta readers, Mari and Aere, for being my cheerleaders, editors, and giving me the confidence to believe that this story isn't as bad as I worried it was. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank my artist, Gab (PottersPink), for her amazing illustrations. Seeing my writing come to life through her drawings has been beyond amazing and I'm so glad that she chose my story. 
> 
> Working with you all has been such a delight and, while I am sad that it's come to an end, I am so happy that we are finally able to share this story with all of you!!! I hope you all enjoy.

**Prologue**

These stories always run the same course. They start, and they end with children. 

They always do. Such was the case with the Salem witch trials, Goatman, Bloody Mary, ghoulies, ghosties, long-legged beasties, and everything that goes bump in the night. 

In Canton, New York, children told the story of the hellhound. 

**Summer. 1974.**

It was cold for August. 

Four kids sat bundled on three logs, deep in the Northern New York woods. They smacked mosquitos off their necks and ants away from their ankles. A fire laid dying in the middle of their circle. The trees towered above them, forest skyscrapers, swaying and groaning in the wind.

The kids’ parents snoozed away, cozied up in their tents twenty feet beyond them. All except Mr. Summers, who leaned on a pine tree and puffed smoke from his Marlboros like a locomotive. 

William Summers, a perfectly round boy who hadn’t taken a shower in the week and a half they’d been there, had his own log. As did his younger brother Timmy, who laid across his log and snored. Michael O'Brien and his baby sister Sarah, who would later become Sarah Rogers, shared one. She cuddled into her brother’s side, knees tucked under her chin and her eyes comically bugged out. 

“We should get your dad to relight the fire,” Michael suggested. Remnants of an Irish accent laced through his eleven-year-old voice. “I mean, if you wanna tell ghost stories so bad, we can at least be warm.” 

“This isn’t a ghost story!” William lisped through the gap in his teeth, “it really happened!” 

“Sure it did, Billy.” Michael rolled his eyes. “Only I’ve never seen no man in the woods and I sure as hell haven’t seen any giant black dogs with red eyes.” 

“Yeah, let’s see if you’re still saying that after the hellhounds eat you for breakfast,” William huffed, crossing his arms over his baby fat-coated stomach, “and the man’s _dead_ , you know? He only matters ‘cause he’s the one who brought them here.”

“Timmy told me last week that he saw that man in the woods!” Michael argued, waving defensively towards the sleeping brother. “You know, the one that lives in the cabin chopping up old wood, stuck here for eternity because he looked into the hellhound’s eyes. Said it’s so he can lure kids out there to get eaten.” 

  
“Timmy’s a moron,” William scoffed, “everyone knows that if you’re strong enough to stare down a hellhound, you get turned into one. You don’t just get stuck here.” He rolled his eyes and clarified, “The man got torn up by the hounds after he made a deal at the crossroads past Phillips’ grocery store—”

“What’s that gotta do with anything?” 

“‘Cause you have to make a deal with the devil before the hounds can come up here!” William huffed, rolling his eyes again. “It’s like you don’t even listen. You get five years with your wish, and the deal’s up. Then these hounds come up from Hell just to drag whoever made the deal back down with them. Charlie Townsend's big brother says he found the trail of blood from the crossroads into the forest. Says it ended at a pile of bones.” 

“Okay, well, if this man ‘made a deal’,” Michael started, putting air quotes around the last three words, “and they came up and got him, then why would they still be here?”

William shrugged. “They must still be hungry. Looking for five-year-old kids to munch on.” 

Sarah grabbed her brother’s arm, digging her tiny kitten claws into his skin. 

“Ow!” Michael yelped. “Quit it!” 

William groaned, throwing his head back. “Why’d you even bring her if you knew she was gonna be a chicken?” 

“She promised she wouldn’t!” Michael insisted. He sharply nudged his sister away from him, muttering, “knock it off or go back to Ma’s tent.” 

“I don’t wanna,” she pouted. 

“They would, you know,” William continued, “eat you. They’ll eat anything. Dogs, cats, moms,” William shot Sarah a look, “kids.” 

She squeaked and grabbed her brother’s sleeve. 

“What would?” Michael asked. 

“The hellhounds! Jesus, Mikey, are you even listening?” 

Michael scoffed, “I stopped listening to you in the fourth grade when you told me a hellhound broke into your backyard eight times.”

“It did!” 

“You’re full of shit, Billy,” Michael laughed. “Why didn’t it eat you, then?” 

“I don’t know!” William exclaimed, loud enough that his brother snuffed and snorted in his sleep, but rolled over and settled down just as quickly. William, whispering this time, continued. “You’re really telling me you’re not afraid of these things?” 

Michael raised an eyebrow. “I’m not a chicken.” 

“Why not? You remember what they’re even made of?” William stuck his hand out, counting on his fingers as he recited. “Hair of a black boar, soot from a holy fire, remnants of the-”

“Yeah, of the plague. I remember, alright?” 

“That’s stuff from black magic or something!” William exclaimed. “Why aren’t you scared?!” 

“‘Cause they’re not real!” Michael exclaimed, “And you said a minute ago that no one could see them without turning into one or being eaten!”

“Well, looks like I got lucky!” 

“Looks like you’re lying!” 

“You know they got teeth the size of Sarah’s leg?” William insisted, pointing at Sarah’s floral pajama bottoms. 

She squealed and hid behind her brother’s arm, pleading, “Stop!” 

“Except it’s sharpened to a point that could cut your arm as easy as butter. They’re sharp enough to break steel. And their paws could cover my old man’s big head and rip it clean off with a flick of their wrist.”

Sarah trembled like paper in a hurricane. 

William smirked and crossed his arms, feeling accomplished in scaring one kid at the campsite. 

He turned toward Michael, the last kid to scare since Timmy was sleeping and all, and said, “and you don’t have to see them to know they’re there, genius. You can smell them.” 

“Oh my Lord,” Michael cackled, kicking back in his seat and shaking his head, “you can _smell_ them? You know how ridiculous you sound?” 

“It’s true! Joseph Rogers’ big brother even said so. He says they smell like someone mixed rotten milk, gasoline, and shit. The minute you catch a whiff, they start growling loud enough you feel your _bones_ shake. Before you can even turn around, they lunge forward and…” 

William paused, eyes dancing back and forth from Sarah to Michael. 

Michael worked his jaw while Sarah clutched his sleeve tighter. 

“ _Bite you!”_ William and Michael yelled in unison, sending poor Sarah into a shrieking fit. She pushed away from her brother and sprinted to Mr. Summers puffing away on his cigarette. 

“You boys knock it off!” he scolded half-heartedly to the pair who were cackling so bad they fell off their logs and got dirt stuck to the fat, happy tears rolling down their red cheeks.

Mr. Summers dropped his cigarette and snuffed it with the toe of his boot. 

“C’mon,” he said, lifting Sarah and putting her on his hip, “let’s get you back to your mom.” 

As the boys clutched their stomachs and howled with laughter, something deep in the woods, standing behind the tallest tree, watched them with blood-red eyes. 

All these campfire stories in Canton circled around the same thing. Every child believed that hellhounds loitered around their woods, hiding in the shadows until someone walked through their path. 

But, as all children do, they grew up. Most left the myths behind as they passed adolescence. Some, however, believed the stories until their dying breath. 

Sarah Rogers was one of them. 


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She never missed mass in fear of damnation. She had a terrible fear of fire and never let Steve light the fireplace, not even in the sharpest of winters. When he complained of the cold, she’d have him pray for warmth._
> 
> _“But Ma,” he’d complain through chattering teeth, “isn’t that why God gave us fire?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Death of a minor character. Somewhat graphic depiction of death

The Rogers lived in the tiny house tucked in the furthest corner of town. The house with the brown front lawn, rotted wood porch, and roof that was one bad winter away from caving in. Kids used to throw rocks at their windows and laugh when Crazy Sarah Rogers chased them away with a broom. 

Steve Rogers was born to a poor family. They watered down their soup to make it last, tailored their own clothes, slept in the same room, and took donations from their church’s canned food drive. Steve seldom experienced a warm home when it wasn’t summer or a full belly year-round. 

Steve was also born to an odd family. The crazy family. The family with the mom who all the locals laughed at.

Steve’s pa, Joseph Rogers, died of a stroke when Steve was three months old. Pa keeled over and passed in the living room while Ma was giving Steve a bath. She didn’t find him for thirty minutes.

See, Steve’s ma, Sarah, was always a pious woman. Steve didn’t know it since he was so young when it happened, but Pa’s death only made Ma worse. 

She never missed mass in fear of damnation. She had a terrible fear of fire and never let Steve light the fireplace, not even in the sharpest of winters. When he complained of the cold, she’d have him pray for warmth. 

“But Ma,” he’d complain through chattering teeth, “isn’t that why God gave us fire?” 

They prayed the rosary every afternoon at three, the hour of Divine Mercy, for their protection. They locked each window three times, the door twice, and latched the entrance to the attic with rope. She drew a cross on Steve’s forehead every night to bless his dreams. 

“May the Lord protect you,” she’d whisper before pressing a kiss at the crown of his head, “may he abate the evils that linger near our home.” 

Ma grew up in Canton. Her parents immigrated from Ireland when she was not yet three. At five, a couple of weeks after hearing the hellhound story for the first time from some hooligans around a campfire, she got lost in the woods. 

As the story goes, she walked and walked to find her way home but only led herself deeper. She stumbled on a thorn bush and cut up her knees. When she stood up, her face flushed and covered in hot tears and snot, a rumbling growl sounded behind her, coming from the throat of the devil dog itself. 

She never looked into its eyes, thank God, because that would’ve sent her straight into the arms of Satan. 

“I barely made it out alive, Stevie,” she whispered and cuddled him closer on their ratty sofa. 

All of Steve’s bedtime stories were cautionary tales of blood-red eyes, foaming jowls, rotting teeth, and those awful, guttural growls. 

The stories used to give him nightmares so bad he’d scurry into his mother’s bed and shake her awake with hot tears and snot on his face. 

“You see, Stevie?” she’d say, pulling him into her lap and wrapping her arms around him like steel pipes, “they’ll take anyone, especially little boys out that late. They’ll tear you apart.” 

She never hid her beliefs from the town either. At her nursing job in the local hospital, she’d give kids stickers, lollies, and cautionary reminders to lock their doors at night. After mass, she’d warn the small ones to stay away from the woods. 

Mothers would grip their children’s shoulders, pull them close and hiss, “That is  _ enough _ , Sarah.” 

“No one believes in that nonsense anymore,” Mrs. Rumlow, the meanest, plumpest, and most protective mother of the lot scolded when she ran into Ma and Steve at the grocery store. “It’s about time you stop filling your son’s head with it. I mean, hellhounds? What a childish thing to talk about.” 

“They’re real,” Ma insisted, holding onto Steve’s hand and the basket handle tightly, “I’ve seen them.” 

Mrs. Rumlow just huffed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a break, Sarah.” 

It was Mrs. Rumlow’s son, Brock, who gave the Rogers their family nickname. The one that the entire town would come to know them by. The one they’d use when they’d gossip and point. 

During Sunday mass, Brock would twist around, elbow his brother and nod over towards Steve and Ma sitting three pews back. 

“Look at that, Billy,” he’d giggle and point, “it’s the Doggy Rogers!” 

The town soaked it up like a dehydrated sponge would water. Every time the Rogers went to the grocery store, the diner, the bank, or the park, some local would nudge another and chuckle, “There go the Doggy Rogers.” 

Even as a child, Steve wasn’t free from their taunting. The kids of those protective mothers and gossiping fathers would sneer at Steve while he ducked behind his mother’s legs, bugged eyes amplified by his coke bottle glasses. 

Ma would send him to school smelling of alkaline soap and burnt sage. His clothes never fit, always too big or too small. She made him carry rosary beads in his backpack, but that didn’t prevent every evil from invading his life. School children are always the nastiest. 

Brock Rumlow was the one who taught the other children to turn their sneers into points and laughter. He taught them to run whenever Steve got close and chant, “Doggy Rogers! Doggy Rogers!” 

No one wanted to play with the sickly, four-eyed, poor boy with a crazy mother. It wasn’t like he could chase after them anyway. His health wouldn’t allow it. 

He used to let it be. He’d just sulk over to the nearest bench and kick pebbles or draw figures in the dirt until the bell rang. 

_ They just don’t get it, _ Steve would think stubbornly to himself,  _ they don’t get Ma like I do.  _

They didn’t know she cuddled him even when he was sick and snotty and smelt of stale sweat and vomit. They couldn’t know that she hung up every picture he drew around the house even when the walls started filling up. They wouldn’t know that she worked up a smile even on days she was hurting so badly because she was awfully, awfully lonely. 

They didn’t understand that Ma just knew best. That she was warning them to keep them safe. That she was the only one who really understood what was out there. 

Instead of heeding her warnings, they mocked her. 

_ They don’t get her. They just don’t get her, _ Steve would think to himself over and over as he sat alone on that bench. 

Until one day when he was eight, and he doesn’t particularly remember why, it got to him. A pit of anger, so small and quiet that it was just a little spark, began opening up in his stomach. It was like a kettle sitting over a just kindled stove. 

Gilmore Hodge, some buck-toothed kid who always had dried boogers around his nose and was much too big for the second grade, shoved Steve’s shoulder on his way to the lunchroom and snarked, “Move it, Doggy Rogers.” 

That anger festering deep in his belly swelled and before Steve knew it, he was running after that snot-nosed Hodge and screaming, “Take it back, you goddamn  _ oaf _ !” 

Gilmore didn’t even turn around when Steve jumped on his back and knocked him to the ground. He crushed Gilmore’s face into the concrete and started swinging his fists with no rhyme nor reason. Gilmore curled up like a rollie pollie and cuffed his hands over his face. 

Kids were frozen in their spots around the cafeteria, food stuck in their hands and mouths. It was seconds before the janitor huffed and stalked over to pluck tiny Steve Rogers off of Gilmore. 

He was suspended for three days. Ma’s biggest complaint was Steve using the good Lord’s name in vain and breaking his glasses. She was quite content to have him close to her for three days, even though she had to take time off work. 

The fight didn’t douse the fire. In fact, it grew a little hotter. A little bigger. A little brighter. 

Kids just raised their taunting ten-fold. They’d howl in laughter when Steve chased after them, his arms swinging like windmills and his teeth bared. 

Steve went home with his clothes torn. Steve went home with a bloody nose. Steve went home with a black eye. Steve went home with cracked ribs. Steve went home with a broken arm. 

And Ma would weep and check him up and down for bites. 

It happened and it happened and it happened. It didn’t calm down a bit in high school. Kids would throw notes at Steve in class and growl at him in the hallways.

Steve ate lunch by himself in the art room or sometimes with Sam Wilson. 

Sam was the nicest kid in school and made friends with just about everyone. He was on the football team and had a smile that schmoozed every teacher on campus. Steve couldn’t help but like him, especially when he was the only kid who bothered to give Steve the time of day. 

Like one time, Rumlow had pointed at Matt Murdock’s service dog and yelled, “Look out, Rogers! Or the hound will come up and bite ya!” 

It had been pretty tame, given everything, but Sam had still snapped, “Brock, shut the fuck up, man.”

And while Steve had smiled, something sour was churning in his stomach. He didn’t need someone sticking up for him. He could get by just fine on his own. 

Only that’s how he ended up getting suspended so many times. No matter how much he tried to fight it, everyone in town thought his mother was insane. At that point, the only thing his fighting did was ensure he was failing every class but art and that someone would corner him on the way home to make sure he walked back with bruises. 

By the time he graduated, no one was willing to hire him for a job, and Steve started to think that maybe everyone was right. Maybe there were no hellhounds in Canton. 

He sure as hell hadn’t seen one. All that growling and twig snapping at night could’ve been a coyote or his imagination. 

These thoughts festered and sat with him for months. Maybe his family was crazy. Maybe the woods were safe. Maybe the hound Ma had seen had just been a rabid dog. 

Maybe if he just told her that it was all nonsense, then their lives could change for the better. Steve could walk at his graduation without getting heckled and Ma could run to the grocery store without getting laughed at. 

Only Ma got sick real fast and Steve never got to tell her. 

It was a few months after Steve graduated, right after he turned nineteen. Instead of packing up for college or finding a job in the next town over, he was wiping the spit off his mother’s mouth and changing her bedsheets. 

She had always been a frail thing. Real petite and sick almost as much as Steve. Their immune systems were both for shit so when she worked through a bad cold, it made it pretty easy for that cold to turn into bronchitis. And after she caught bronchitis four times, it developed into chronic COPD and there was nearly nothing they could do. 

They couldn’t afford good antibiotics or even a humidifier. The hospital she worked at didn’t even give her a bed to sleep in. 

“Sorry, kid,” the chief physician snarked as he strutted through the gleamy hospital hallways too quickly for Steve to keep up, “we can’t just give out beds to anyone. It doesn’t matter if they work here.” 

“But she’s  _ dying _ ,” Steve insisted, steel cutting through his voice. 

“So are kids in Africa. You don’t see them whining,” he snapped, giving Steve a pointed look to show that the conversation was over. 

Steve stomped out of the hospital, something sharp clawing at his stomach as he muttered obscenities under his breath. 

As he departed, he heard the Chief Physician mutter to a nurse, “Yeah, like I’d ever give a free bed to a Doggy Rogers. That bitch would scare half my patients to the hospital in Morley.” 

So Steve spent his first months as a high school grad playing nurse for his mother. Their room smelled musty and salty because Steve couldn’t help her wash up much. As it was, he couldn’t even see her without a medical mask and gloves. She kept him up at night with her rattling hacks. She laid in bed half loopy from medicine and fatigue. Sometimes she couldn’t lift her head enough for Steve to pour medicine in her mouth. 

It was fine until there came a point, as there always will with death, when Ma couldn’t speak anymore. The only things that left her mouth were spit, moans, and coughing fits. She flailed a lot and her eyes kept rolling back. 

On an early afternoon in August, a Sunday, Ma died in the middle of a coughing fit while Steve was cooking her cream of wheat. 

A month later, Steve’s bags were packed, everything in the house was boxed up and Steve had a job in the city drawing pictures for a company that sold cheap t-shirts to tourists. 

He never wanted to stay, but it didn’t help that he’d go to the living room and expect Ma to be sitting on the couch praying. He couldn’t bear lying there alone at night with nothing but the howls of the wind to speak with. 

As he loaded his stuff into Sam’s truck, the only person in Canton who cared that Steve was leaving and was nice enough to drive him, Steve vowed to leave all Ma’s awful superstitions behind. 

No more Doggy Rogers. No more gossip. No more whispers. No more goddamn foamy mouthed, bloodshot eyes, and snapping jawed hellhounds to plague his dreams. 

He buried all that with his mother. 

“You ain’t selling it?” Sam asked while carrying Steve’s cardboard boxes to his car. 

Steve sat panting on the porch with his inhaler in his left hand. It was the beginning of fall where the air turned sticky and hot and Steve had been too stubborn to listen to Sam about taking a break.

He sucked in another puff of medicine, pushed his glasses up his nose, and said, “Not yet, no. Doesn’t feel right yet.” 

“That’s fair. There's no rush for these sorts of things,” Sam stated and dumped the last of Steve’s six boxes into the trunk. 

Steve had heard that often enough. All four people in town who bothered to speak with him after Ma passed had said the same thing. There’s no rush. Everyone mourns at their own pace. 

Steve had just about had it. He knew there was no rush and yet he still needed more time. 

“You ready?” Sam asked, propping his arm atop his truck. 

Steve looked back at his home with the chipped paint, dented roof, and poorly patched windows. He exhaled and turned back toward Sam. He pushed on his knees to heft himself up.

“Yeah,” he called and stepped off the porch, “been ready for years.” 

Though as they hopped into the car and drove away from the rotting house with the dead front lawn, it seemed as though something might have been watching them from the woods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you all tomorrow for chapter 2! That's when the ball will really start rolling for this story.


	3. Chapter Two

And five years pass. 

As it would be, Canton calls to him once more. 

It’s his asthma, of all things, that drives him back. 

“It’s my asthma,” Steve wheezes on the couch. He’s hunched over, shoulders by his ears and hands grasping his knees, “brought on by the—” 

He breaks off and falls into another coughing fit. His forehead almost touches his knees and his back aches with pain. His body’s lurching hard enough to knock off his glasses. 

His roommate Peggy, still in her fancy pants-suit for work, scrambles to get his inhaler from his backpack. She shakes it before tossing it over to him. He fumbles when he catches it and it falls on the floor, but he snatches it up and shakes it some more. 

He puts it between his lips and pushes the button three times, holding his breath and then breathing deeply between each pump. 

“—damn pollution. Thanks,” Steve says after his lungs stopped spazzing. He’s still breathing heavily and his eyes are watering, but he can breathe. He grabs his glasses and slips them back on his face before tucking his inhaler in his pocket. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Peggy insists and sits beside him. She stiffly moves to rub his back but he waves her away, so she folds her hands in her lap and sighs, “do you really think it’s the smog?” 

Steve huffs a laugh, “I don’t  _ think  _ it’s the smog. It is the smog. I haven’t had a breath of fresh air in years. Can’t even open our goddamn windows.” 

He waves his hand towards the big window in their living room. While it provides a great view of the worst part of Brooklyn, it doesn’t give them much relief during the hottest summer months. Sure, it’s safer if a window more than twenty stories high isn’t able to open on account of all those who tumbled out of them while drunk or playing, but in the stickiest, stuffiest summer months there’s only so much relief a fan cycling stale air can do for them. 

“The air’s worse outside than it is in here,” Peggy points out, looking on the bright and more logical side of things, “with the pollution being so bad and all.” 

Steve exhales and relents. “Ain’t that the truth.” 

“Steve,” Peggy starts, then cuts herself off. 

Steve twists toward her and raises an eyebrow. 

She’s fiddling with her fingers and her face is scrunched like she knows what she has to say will end in a fight. 

She and Steve have known each other for as long as he’s lived in the city. When finding a place in New York to move into, he found a listing in Brooklyn where a graduate student from London was desperate for a roommate. He sent in his application and he got a call back right away. 

_ “Thank God,” the smooth, almost lyrical, voice sighed through the phone, “I thought no one would apply. I was prepared to move back home.”  _

_ Steve sat at his kitchen table. His eyes were dusty red. A box of used tissues and a copy of his mother’s will rested in front of him. He swallowed so his voice wouldn’t waver or crack and replied with, “Glad I could help.”  _

Five years later and they’re inseparable. It helps tremendously that Peggy is the first reciprocal best friend Steve ever had. 

It also doesn’t hurt that neither of them has other friends in the city, save from a few of Steve’s less than ideal ex-boyfriends. Peggy has a cousin in D.C. but that’s her only relative in the states. All of Steve’s family is dead and the one friend he had growing up is stuck in the town Steve avidly refuses to go back to. 

They know each other’s quirks and what makes the other tick. Peggy knows that Steve prefers his coffee hot to iced and he only tidies his room on Sundays. Steve knows that Peggy has to make her bed every morning with military folded corners and she likes to sit on the balcony at sundown to decompress. They deal with each other’s messes; Steve’s pencils and paints splayed across every surface and Peggy’s aversion to washing the dishes. They know what sounds get under the other’s skin and each other’s biggest fears. 

That’s why Peggy doesn’t want to say what she has to, but she takes one deep breath and asks, “Do you still have your mother’s house in Canton?” 

“No,” Steve scoffs, shaking his head and turning away. He runs a hand over his hair, “I mean yes, but no, I know what you’re gonna ask and no. I’m not going back there.” 

“It would only be for the summer!” 

“Peggy,  _ no _ .” 

“Just until your lungs clear up! You’ve been getting attacks every hour. You’re one away from needing an iron lung.” 

“That’s dramatic,” Steve grumbled, facing the opposite wall, “and probably insensitive. Some people might still have those, you know.” 

“I’m starting to worry about the effect it’s having on your heart,” she explains. She gingerly raises her hand and when he doesn’t flinch away, she moves to set it on his shoulder. 

He’s still looking at the far wall, lips sticking out like he’s pouting but his glare’s too stern for that. He crosses his arms and stubbornly spits, “My hearts just fine, thanks. And if you’re so worried about it, just know that going back there isn’t gonna help.” 

“But you’ve been wanting to sell it for ages!” Peggy exclaims before she lets out a sudden gasp and hops up from the couch. There’s a suspicious grin stretched across her face when she says, “and you can take Madame Liberty!” 

She jogs from the couch to search for their fat tabby cat. 

“Madame Liberty!” she calls and ducks to check under the table and then around the kitchen. 

That’s not much of a consolation prize because, well, Madame Liberty hates Steve. Absolutely hates him. Which is a goddamn joke because he was the one who found her. 

He was minding his business, taking a walk while looking at the Statue of Liberty for reference on a new work he’d been commissioned for. She came out of nowhere, looking mangy and half-dead, and wrapped herself around Steve’s leg and yowled something awful. Steve felt bad and gave her pieces of his tuna sandwich. 

Madame Liberty must have figured Steve was fit to be a good keeper because she followed him all the way home. Her pathetically thin face tugged on his heartstrings just enough, so he let her in, gave her a bath, and filled her belly. But as soon as Peggy came home from work, that cat found a new favorite. 

“I’m not taking your cat,” Steve states, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“She’s  _ your  _ cat. Dear God, where is that girl?” 

“No, we decided that she was  _ yours  _ after you bought her the ugly collar.” 

It’s fuchsia. It clashes so horribly with Madame Liberty’s orange fur that she even looks embarrassed. 

“You’re the one who found her!” Peggy insists childishly from where she’s just about crawling under their table before she calls, “Madame Liberty!” 

“Peggy,” Steve groans and tosses his head back. It rests on the back of the couch and he’s looking up at their popcorn ceiling. “No, okay? Just no. I’ll be just fine here. And you’re never gonna find that cat crawling around like that. She probably got out again.”

As soon as the sentence left his mouth, Peggy pops up from behind the table with a cheeky grin on her face and their obese cat tucked in her arms. Her smile doesn’t falter as she walks over and plops Madame Liberty into Steve’s lap. 

“Madame Liberty hates me,” Steve grumbles. He goes to scratch behind her ears but she hisses and swats him away. She opts for kneading at his leg instead, then spinning thrice to curl up and nap against his stomach. 

“Will you at least think about it?” Peggy pleads, sitting back down and scratching under Madame Liberty’s chin. She purrs fiercely and leans into the affection like the goddamn traitor she is. 

Steve huffs and slides his narrowed eyes towards his friend. 

“You aren’t gonna let this go, are you?” he asks. 

Her teeth are impossibly white when she grins and says, “Of course not.” 

“Alright, fine. I’ll think about it.” He wiggles a hand out from under Madame Liberty to point it at Peggy to emphasize, “but don’t get your hopes up.” 

Despite himself, he finds that he’s pondering the idea carefully. 

He’s tapping his pencil against the sketchpad sitting in his lap. He’s in Central Park and the landscaper just mowed the grass. Steve doesn’t do too well with the smell of freshly cut grass. It never fails to aggravate his allergies. 

He’s supposed to be drawing his view of Belvedere Castle. It’s his latest commission and they’re only gonna pay him fifteen bucks an hour. The pay isn’t ideal, especially since he and Peggy were greeted with a rude letter from their landlord that morning informing them of their increase in rent. 

Peggy’s been getting raise on top of raise at work, but Steve would croak before he let her pay his half of the rent. 

“I could always use the money,” he mumbles to himself and taps his pencil three more times. He doesn’t even have the outline of the castle finished yet, “and it’s not like  _ I’m  _ gonna use the house.” 

A mother and her daughter are biking past, putting considerable distance between themselves and the small man chatting to himself on the bench. 

He tilts his head at the castle and taps the pencil against his chin now, “But selling a house is a lot of work. Gonna need a realtor and I’d have to get one of those from out of town.” 

He plans to keep debating, but his asthma decides then’s a great time to kick in. One minute, he’s chatting away to himself without a care for who hears, and the next he’s hacking like he’s about to cough up his lungs. His esophagus feels like it went from the size of a steel pipe to a Juicy Juice bendy straw. 

The sketchpad falls off his lap and he nearly tumbles down with it. He grips the edge of his seat and starts the awful pattern of hack, hack, wheeze, hack, hack, wheeze. 

“Oh my  _ God! _ ” cries a young blonde mother with sunglasses the shape of bug eyes. She’s fresh out of pilates class and she is on her way to get an acai bowl from Jamba Juice when the young man on the bench starts, she assumes, dying. 

She sprints over and starts waving her arms around frantically. 

Steve, hacking and wheezing the way he is, looks up with teary eyes and thinks she looks like a jostled bumblebee. 

“What do I do?” she squeals, twisting about and waving for anyone to come over and help. 

Passersby glance for a second before dropping their attention back to their phones, coffees, or the ground. 

Steve curls over and jabs his finger towards his dingy backpack laying on the ground in front of him. His inhaler is in the front pocket and if he wasn’t too busy frantically trying to get oxygen, he would’ve told her that. 

Instead, she unzips every pocket, tilts it upside down, and shakes it furiously so everything tumbles out. His inhaler falls out last, plopping down on top of his old crumpled up drawings, cough drop wrappers, and a ziplocked peanut butter sandwich. 

The lady grabs it from the ground and dodges Steve’s hand when he tries to snag it away. As if this entire ordeal wasn’t mortifying enough, she puts the inhaler in his mouth and presses the button for him as if his spazzing lungs somehow paralyzed his arms. 

He glares her down as she instructs him to breathe in and out. He almost doesn’t out of sheer stubbornness, but his lungs are actually screaming at him to just fucking breathe so he does. 

There’s absolutely nothing on Earth, not the subway shutting down during peak traffic time or rats getting into the apartment, that Steve hates more than being babied. 

She doesn’t leave it there. She insists, practically fucking begs, for Steve to accompany her to the Jamba Juice so she could buy him a smoothie. 

Okay. Alright. The stubborn string in his stomach snaps while the pilates mom makes sure he drinks his smoothie. 

Maybe spending a summer away from the city won’t be so bad. 

The thing is, Steve doesn’t wanna go alone. The second he steps foot into Canton and someone calls, “Hey there Doggy Rogers! Long time no see!” he just knows that he’ll chicken out, turn around and sprint back to the city.

So if Peggy would come with, then maybe,  _ maybe  _ he’ll consider it. 

They’re eating chow mein on the couch and watching  _ America’s Next Top Model _ when Steve says, “Let’s say I do go—” 

Peggy squeals with a mouth full of sweet and sour pork. She places a hand over her mouth to be polite, but Steve puts his hand up before she can say anything. 

“ _ If  _ I go, is there any chance you can come with?” Steve asks, almost pleads, because he knows what the answer will be. Still, he really doesn’t want to go back there alone and it never hurts to ask. 

Peggy’s lips quirk apologetically before she swallows her food. 

“I’m sorry, Steve. It’s just my job—”

Steve waves her off with a forced smile and says, “No it’s alright. I figured I’d ask just in case.”

Peggy works as an intern at some agency in the city. Steve thinks it’s the FBI because she’s been really secretive about it since she got it. She always wears nice pant-suits or pencil skirts and bright lipstick. She called it SHIELD one time but couldn’t even remember what it stood for. 

There’s one thing for certain though. She doesn’t get time off. 

And Steve’s back to square one. 

“No,” he affirms to himself one morning when he’s too sick to get out of bed, “I’m not going back there unless I’m dead.”

A cold has caught hold of him again and Peggy promised to stop at their favorite diner for soup on her way home. 

His chest is achy and stuffed. His head feels like there’s someone on the inside whacking stuff around with a mallet. Everything’s blurred because his glasses made the headache worse. One of his nostrils feels about as dry as the Sahara while the other lets out an ongoing flood of mucus. Even though it’s the muggiest part of summer, Steve’s thick quilt is pulled up so high that only his bleary eyes peek out. 

This cold is, without a doubt, brought on by the close quarters of the subways and sidewalks. It didn’t help that Steve was without the relief of fresh air to get his lungs to clear. 

He decides that he’ll just get better with time, but then he rolls over to hack and hack and hack until his lungs compress and he’s shooting up like a light to snatch his inhaler off the nightstand. 

It takes three puffs before his breathing calms down enough that he can lay back down. He sneers behind him towards the window that can’t open then down towards the foot of his bed where the half-broken fan sits. 

He wants to be thankful for having one because Peggy embarrassed herself by snagging it from a coworker right before they could toss it, but it doesn’t help alleviate the stale air in their apartment at all. 

His hair’s tacked to his forehead and there’s sweat coating the back of his white pajama shirt. The air’s so thick and hot that he’s finding it hard to breathe again. 

He clutches the inhaler to his chest, closes his eyes and huffs. 

“Alright,” he mutters, “alright, I get it.” 

He gets that if he sticks it out here long enough, he’ll soon be heading back to Canton dead for sure. 

Two nights later, he storms out of his bedroom. The cold is nearly cleared from his chest but he’s still terribly congested. The stuffy air has not helped one bit. 

Peggy looks up from where she’s typing away on her laptop. Madame Liberty’s snoozing on her lap and Steve wants to scold Peggy for letting the cat near the table, but he’s determined to say something and if he doesn’t just say it, he won’t at all. 

Peggy’s face is scrubbed free of makeup and there are hints of dark circles under her eyes. There’s a coffee stain on her floral pajama top and she’s covered in cat fur, yet she still looks better than Steve. 

Steve, who’s been miserable, unwashed and in the same pajamas for the past four days. He’s still stomping out here with a fire in his eyes and a scowl on his face. 

“Alright!” he relents, lifting his arms up, “I fold!” 

Madame Liberty jolts from the sudden noise but just shoots Steve a glare before she settles in again. 

“I beg your pardon?” Peggy asks, tone a little skewed from her bewilderment. 

“I give up!” he rephrases and plops down into the chair across from her, “I’m calling it a day. I’m throwing in the towel. I fold.” 

She’s still staring at him as if he completely lost his mind. Her nose is wrinkled and her head is tilted. Her fingers are still as they hover over the keyboard. 

Steve sighs and says, “You win. I’ll go back to Canton.” 

She gasps so loud it startles Madame Liberty enough to leap from Peggy’s lap. Peggy’s grinning and wiggling and about to spring up from her seat to wrap Steve in a big old hug. 

Which she does, of course, and nearly chokes him.

“Only for the summer,” he sputters out, voice squeaky. 

She lets go of him and takes a step back. Her grin hasn’t dropped a bit. 

Steve takes a deep breath, holds up one finger, and gives her a pointed look. “I’m only there until this air clears up and I get the chance to sell my folks’ place. I’m coming back here as soon as someone shows interest in buying, understand?” 

She nods like a flicked bobblehead and lurches forward to grab Steve in a big hug again. 

Alright, he gets it. He’d be this excited if he got a few months of alone time, too. 

Which he’ll be getting. In Canton. 

God, this feels like a mistake. 

Canton should be a storybook town. It has the red brick buildings, family-owned shops, all four seasons, lush trees lining the sidewalks, and smiling locals who wave when you drive by. 

But it’s nothing like a modern fairytale. Those smiles drop to sneers the second you turn around and they don’t let just  _ anyone  _ walk into their shops. The locals hold malice that’s gotta come from somewhere. Maybe there’s something really evil (decidedly  _ not  _ hellhounds) lurking within the woods encasing the town. Something so sinister that the locals soaked it in and it turned their hearts cold. 

It’s past dark now. All those shops are closed up and no one is on the street, yet Steve’s heart feels like a thick rock in his chest. Every beat of it feels like it might tear straight through the skin and smack the taxi driver in the back of the head. 

Steve left his ma’s car in their driveway when he moved to the city, so he had to take public transportation to get there. The four-hour greyhound ride and twenty minutes in the taxi had accumulated a hefty fair, but Peggy gave him enough money for the ticket and the driver. 

She offered to come for the ride, but a phone call from work and an apologetic smile meant that she couldn’t uphold it. That’s the only reason why Steve accepted a cent from her. 

His secondhand suitcase sits in the truck while his beat-up duffle lays in the seat beside him. Madame Liberty snoozes in her carrier on his lap. He has his arms wrapped around it. He’s clutching it to his chest like it’s a teddy bear. 

God, he does  _ not  _ want to be back here. 

The driver keeps driving and driving. And driving and driving. And driving and driving. 

They’re past all the shops and two-story houses that Steve once dreamed of living in. He thought that maybe if he lived there then kids would want to play with him and no one would laugh when he went shopping for cheap medicine and soap when Ma was sick. 

They drive until they reach the one-story houses. Then until the trees begin to dry and the paint on the exterior walls is chipped. 

They drive until they reach the house with a cross on the door and a nearly caved in roof. There’s a ‘96 RAV4 parked in the driveway that hasn’t moved in five years. Steve can see spiderwebs that have built up on the door handles from where he sits in the taxi. 

It’s the house of the Doggy Rogers. 

It’s terribly dark now, just past nine. Steve had hoped to get here sooner, before the sun bid farewell and went to sleep behind the trees. 

It’s fine, though. This is fine. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of nighttime. Not even in a house where the woods were his backyard and Ma screamed at every rustled branch or hooting owl. 

Steve doesn’t know why he expects the lights to be on. No one’s been inside that house for five years. It sits, dark, still and unused, and yet Steve can see Ma throwing open the door, sprinting down the porch, and wrapping him safely in her arms. 

Only Ma is asleep under Canton cemetery grass marked with a graffitied headstone. 

_ Here lies Mrs. Doggy Rogers. May she bother those fuckers downstairs with her nonsense instead of us kind folks up here.  _

The taxi rumbles then parks. The driver switches the engine, throws an arm over the headrest of the passenger seat, and twists toward Steve to ask, “You need any help with your bags, kid? You don’t look so hot.” 

Steve pulls his wide eyes away from the window. His forehead’s pretty clammy and his hands feel just as wet. 

He swallows and shakes his head, “I’m good. Thank you, though. For the ride,” he shoves a hand in his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash Peggy gave him, and stiffly holds his fist out, “here.” 

The driver cocks a brow and casts an incredulous look toward the cash in Steve’s hand back to his face. Based on how thick the bundle was, it was probably way too much for the fare and tip. Steve wouldn’t know. He’d never been in a taxi before. Never had the money for it. 

The driver just sweetly smiles, plucks the cash and pockets it before turning around. 

He bids over his shoulder, “Have a good night, kid.” 

“Thanks,” Steve grumbles, already looking back at the house and scooting out of the cab. 

He shucks the duffle’s strap over his shoulder and tucks Madame’s Liberty’s carrier under his arm. He slams his door then walks over to pop open the trunk. He struggles a little, or a lot, balancing his cat and the duffle while hefting out his large suitcase. 

Madame Liberty’s carrier is smacking his chin and all the ruckus awoke her and now she’s hissing and swatting towards Steve’s face. Thank God for that mesh door in the way or his face would be mauled like it was put through a goddamn shredder. 

He could picture it now; walking back into town after all this time, sitting down at a diner with a cup of jo and some schmuck sauntering up to say,  _ “Wow, Rogers. One night back in town and it already got ya, huh?”  _

And it’s just Steve’s luck that he would have to turn around, smile, and say,  _ “Sorry to disappoint, but it was just my cat.”  _

“You need help back there?” the driver yells, leaning out of his window. He gives scrawny Steve a once over, lip curled up and utterly unimpressed by his thin stature. It’s like he hadn’t noticed it while Steve was sitting in the back of his cab. 

Steve huffs and drops the suitcase on the ground. The duffle slips to the crook of his arm and drags him down, so he adjusts it, grits his teeth, and replies with, “No, thanks. I got it.” 

The driver shrugs and settles himself back in front of his steering wheel. 

“Suit yourself,” he grumbles. 

Steve slams the trunk shut and the driver takes off. 

It nearly knocks Steve off balance as he scrambles back to avoid getting a mouthful of exhaust fumes. 

Yeah alright, Peggy. Fresh air his ass. 

He huffs again and picks up the suitcase, gripping the chipped plastic handle in his hand and pushing the duffle strap more securely up his shoulder. 

He gently tucks the still yowling and hissing Madame Liberty under his arm and says, “Yeah, I don’t wanna be here, either.” 

He looks up at his house, his cold, dead house, and swallows. It’s encased by tall pine trees. Steve used to collect their pine cones as a child, paint them, and give them to his mother. 

Neighboring houses sit on either side of his house. One has all their lights on, the one in the backroom blinking, while the other is completely dark besides the kitchen. 

Lorraine Rollins, who was Lorraine Weaver when Steve went to school with her, squints from the part in her blinds. She has her cellphone pressed against her ear, her gossiping lips hidden just out of Steve’s view. 

Steve lifts his hand and bends his pointer finger, waving at her like a little worm. 

“ _ Hello, _ ” he mouths. 

Her eyes grow the size of serving plates as she squeaks and ducks back behind the blinds. 

Looks like five years haven’t changed Canton much at all. If they just forgot him like they all wanted to, he’d be a better man for it. They’d be a better town for it. 

He rolls his eyes and turns around. 

The woods that lay beyond his house stare expectantly at him. 

_ “There you are!”  _ the leaves shake and cry. “ _ We thought you’d never come back.”  _

He takes a step. His sweaty palm has slicked up the handle of the suitcase so he wipes it on his jeans and regains his grip. 

_ “Come closer,”  _ say the trees. 

Another step. He adjusts his glasses. 

_ “You aren’t still afraid of us, are you?” _

Only he is. He keeps his house keys between his knuckles, a sharp edge to cut at anything that tries to approach, and rushes towards his house. 

The porch screeches under his feet. The suitcase smacks and groans and whines as he pulls it up. Madame Liberty’s hissing and growling up a storm. Steve just knows he’s in for an eyeful of claws when he lets her out. 

But right now all he’s worried about is unlocking and throwing open his door. When he does, he’s smacked with the stuffy, stale air and lingering bits of the cleaner fluid Ma used to mop the floors. 

It smells dead in here. He freezes in the doorway from the sight of the musty, dusty front room. 

The kitchen’s still the way he left it. There are boxes of Ma’s precious knick-knacks crowding the living room. All the doors inside are shut and he jolts when he remembers to close the front door, too. 

And with all his kitty’s yowling and his heart pounding and hissing gossip that almost seeps from the neighbors’ walls and fills up around him, he doesn’t see it. 

Two little red marbles watch him from the brush. A low rumble of a growl shakes nearby branches and causes little bunnies and rodents to scurry off into their burrows. There’s a puddle of drool soaking a patch in the ground and singed prints beneath its feet. 

As Steve locks his doors, it licks its jowls. 

_ How easy this will be, _ it thinks,  _ because the boy seems to have forgotten to check his windows.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its starting to pick up! Thank you so much for the comments and kudos so far! I can't wait for you all to read all of this :) 
> 
> I hope you're all having a great weekend! See you tomorrow for chapter 3
> 
> -Emily


	4. Chapter Three

Ma’s funeral held ten people. Out of the entire town, only ten. 

Even though Ma had coworkers she’d taken countless shifts for. Even though she sat in a packed mass every Sunday and held the hands of her neighbors when they recited the Lord’s Prayer. Even though she painstakingly wrote Christmas cards to every family in the parish and on their street in hopes that one day they’d let their children play with Stevie. 

Only ten came. 

The priest, four nameless pallbearers, two local gossips, Steve, Sam Wilson, and Sam’s mother were the only ones in attendance. 

The gossips wore wide-brimmed black hats that flopped down like pancakes. They cupped their hands over their smiling mouths when they whispered into each other's ears. They were only here to report back to the town about the odd happenings of crazy Sarah Rogers’ funeral. They were probably expecting satanic rituals; slicing open palms, chanting spells in Latin, and placing spices around her casket to ensure that she’d rise from the dead. 

They were sorely disappointed to find that Sarah Rogers was a pious woman. She had a Catholic funeral.

Steve couldn’t help but feel a little bitter. His mother’s funeral wasn’t here to be a spectacle. It was so Steve could say goodbye, but he couldn’t with all the goddamn whispering. 

Ma laid in a pine box casket, one that Sam started a local fundraiser for so Steve could afford it. Sam lied, of course, saying the fundraiser was going to his college expenses. 

When they lowered her into the ground, Steve didn’t cry. He’d wept at home, in the car, and in the funeral home’s restroom. But out here as he chanted  _ goodbye Ma, goodbye _ in his mind and Mrs. Wilson rubbed his back, there wasn’t a single tear in his eyes.

His stomach felt raw and his chest ached something awful but he didn’t cry. 

His stomach didn’t feel any better by the time the reception came around. They had two cases of cheap sandwiches, but only four subs were taken. 

“There’s no rush, Steve,” one of the gossips assured. She munched on her cheap turkey sub, smearing her bright red lipstick on the bread and stated, “there’s absolutely no need to move away so fast.” 

Steve picked at the soggy bread from his sandwich Mrs. Wilson made him take and shrugged, “It’s fine. I gotta good job offer—” 

It wasn’t.

“—pays well.” 

It didn’t. 

“Making art for some tourist company. Figured going out to the city for references wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Still,” the other gossip insisted, taking a heaping bite of her sandwich. A piece of lettuce danced on her bottom lip when she said, “It’s really bad you gotta leave during all this. Can’t help much to move.” 

Steve snorted and pressed his lips together for something that might have tried to be a smile. 

“It can’t hurt though,” he insisted through a hollow tone, “too much fresh air makes me dizzy.” 

There’s a lot of Ma in the house. It’s the last place Steve saw her. 

She’s a ghost here. Every memory he’s had with her seeped into the walls and now that he’s come back, they’re all spilling out. 

Steve sees her boiling down potatoes in the kitchen. He sees her hanging up their linens in the yard. He sees her praying the rosary on their tattered couch and he sees her brushing aside the curtains to scan the woods in their backyard just as it became dusk. 

God, he almost wants to hate Peggy for making him come back, but in the end, he was always meant to. He had boxes he’d left here, after all. 

“Alright, Rogers,” Steve mumbles. He wipes dust off his glasses before sliding them on to look at the array of boxes he left in the living room five years ago. “Just one at a time.” 

He kneels down, pulls over the first box, grabs his box cutter from the floor beside him, and cuts down the clear tape. 

He doesn’t really remember how he had the strength to pack it all away. How he had meticulously worked for hours to organize and wrap Ma’s items and stack them carefully into boxes. How he pushed those boxes into place around the front room with all Ma’s stuff jangling around inside.

Because right now the flaps are open. 

And he might vomit. 

There’s that chipped yellow flower pot that never held a single bloom. She kept it on the kitchen table, just in case anyone ever gifted her any. No one ever did. 

Steve always wanted to. 

He wanted to real bad but he had no money, and by the time Ma let him get a job, she started dying. 

He pushes the yellow pot aside and touches Ma’s hairbrush, the one she used to tame her long hair before Sunday mass. Then there’s the rusted tea kettle, a frayed bible, two chipped mugs with little blue flowers painted on the sides, and a metal pot.

Steve gingerly, as if he’s holding a wiggly baby chick, lifts the pot from the box. This pot, too small to do anything besides cook soups and heat up milk, has a copper bottom and a worn handle. Steve used it to stir up mac and cheese. He used it to cook up Ma’s cream of wheat. 

He used it before he scooped the meal into a plastic bowl and carried it to his and Ma’s room. This was before he found her. Before he saw her once clear eyes become little marbles rolled towards the ceiling. Before he saw how her skin was grey and her mouth hung open. Before he dropped the boiling bowl of mush and burnt his leg and clamored onto the bed to shake her arm and scream at her to  _ wake up, wake up, wake up! _

The pot slips from his hand and crashes against the mugs and kettle. One of the mugs shatters and the kettle sports a new dent. 

Steve scrambles up from his spot on the floor, grabs his keys from the kitchen counter, and scurries out of the house. 

Unboxing will just have to wait until later. 

The Wilsons own the only bar in town. It has dartboards on the walls, pool tables across the floor, and a shelf of booze wrapping around the bar’s four walls. The walls are deep redwood and the carpet’s been torn to shit since its first installment in the late eighties. 

The local alcoholics swarm it at all hours. When Sam was in high school, his parents decided to keep it open from eight at night until breakfast the next morning. 

He skipped college to help them run the place because it was either that or watch his family go bankrupt. Now, his old man is too frail to run the place and his mom grew tired of the late shifts, so Sam took over completely. 

He hired all sorts of people. People from the towns over who needed work and kids who couldn’t afford college yet. Sam was always nice like that. 

It was a comfortable life, Sam reported to Steve once in an email, but he wouldn’t mind settling down. 

When Steve wrote to him that he’d be coming back to town, Sam was ecstatic. 

_ “You better not get here and leave without stopping and saying hi a few times, Rogers, or I’ll kick your ass.”  _

So here Steve is, walking through downtown Canton at the beginning of a moist warm summer wearing a jacket with the hood pulled down over half his face. 

He feels silly, of course, and pathetic. He’s not a coward. He should be walking these streets with his nose in the air and chin held high. It’s just—it’s been five years is all and maybe it’s a little brisk and—

Fuck it. That’s not it. But there’s nothing wrong with not wanting to be seen. 

People walk past unsuspectedly. Some cast him odd looks since he’s got his hood up. Maybe they’re thinking that this little twig of a man, this scrawny looking thing, seems awfully familiar. 

He ducks into The Falcon’s Beak before anyone can attempt a double-take. 

The bar’s pretty empty. The local drunk snores away on a bar stool, head completely collapsed on the counter. Sam’s wiping the counter beside the drunk while shooting him wary looks. He’s probably thinking up the quickest ways to wake him and kick him out so he can go home and get some sleep. 

The bell above the entrance dings as the door opens. 

Sam’s attention snaps towards it. 

Steve shucks off his hood. 

“Rogers!” Sam cheers and the drunk jolts and snorts beside him. Sam walks over with a grin and arms stretched wide to encase Steve in a tight hug. “Man, it’s been too long!” 

“Way too long,” Steve wheezes, arms held stiffly at his sides until he can wiggle one out to awkwardly pat Sam’s back. 

The drunk grumbles and shuffles out of the bar. He’s rubbing at his temples when he squeezes past them through the exit. 

Sam lets him go with a too harsh slap to the shoulder. He’s still grinning when he flips the open signed to closed and asks, “How’ve you been?” 

“Been good,” Steve nods and rubs at his now stinging shoulder, “you?” 

Sam waves Steve to follow him back to the counter. “Same old, same old. The past few months have been rough but nothing too bad,” he says. “I’m thinking about closing the bar up at night again. Breakfast hasn’t been doing too well nowadays. Riley got me to start doing lunch on weekends instead of breakfast. Does a hell of a lot better.” 

Sam goes behind the bar and Steve hops onto one of the stools. 

Sam turns around towards the booze and asks, “Anything to drink?” 

Steve raises an eyebrow and retorts, “It’s nine in the morning.” 

Sam shrugs stiffly. “Kinda my job to offer people booze this early. Just figured I’d ask, is all.” 

He’s looking partway between Steve and the bottles on the counter, eyes sliding back and forth like they don’t quite know where to land. 

It’s the first time in all Steve’s years of knowing him that the confident and easygoing Sam Wilson looks unsure of himself. It’s like he has something to say, but has no idea how to say it. 

Steve eyes him carefully. Sam’s shoulders are bunched and his fingers keep drumming the countertop. He could never whistle, so he just pathetically blows whining air through his lips. 

Steve states, “I’m selling the house.” 

Sam falters a bit. The not-quite whistling stops. He darts a pair of confused eyes towards Steve. Then, he decides to move his gaze to the bottles. He lifts a hand to fiddle with one of them and carefully asks, “You are?” 

“Yeah, after I clean it up a bit. Fix the roof, clean up the lawn, and get out the old junk. Just gotta find a cheap realtor. And one who’ll call me Rogers without adding any nonsense,” Steve pretends to laugh. 

Sam huffs a stiff laugh. “You’ve got a point.” 

“You know anyone who’ll take donations? Just boxes of things? There’s a lot of crap in the house I can’t take back to the city,” Steve asks and clears his throat. “Actually, I’ll take a glass of water, if you can.” 

Sam slowly lifts an eyebrow. He turns around to grab a clean glass from the drying rack and fills it up in the sink before asking, “What kind of donations?” 

“Just my ma’s old stuff.” 

Sam closes his eyes with his grip firming on the tap. He sharply exhales, “Steve—” 

“I know! I know, I just,” Steve rubs at his forehead and keeps his eyes slanted at the countertop, “it’s hard right now, okay?” 

Sam cautiously passes Steve the glass and watches as he gulps it down. 

Steve finishes, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and mumbles, “Thanks.” 

Sam waves him off before plucking the glass off the counter and placing it in the sink. He soaps up a sponge as Steve continues. 

“It’s not like I need it. What the hell am I gonna do with a bunch of junk from a dead woman anyway?” he says in a steel-sharp tone. 

Sam drums the fingers of the hand not holding the sponge on the side of the sink and keeps his gaze downwards. His voice is as tight as a belt done to the last notch. “Even if that junk’s your mother’s?” 

There’s a silence. A stiff pause. 

Steve’s face hardens. “Junk is junk, Sam.” 

The finger drumming picks up a bit. Sam peers over his shoulder with a calculating stare towards Steve. The same stare one would give when trying to decide if a stray dog had rabies. 

Steve’s glare intensifies. He stares as long as Sam does. He doesn’t back down. He’s gripping the sticky counter too tightly and if he was stronger, maybe it would’ve chipped. 

Finally, Sam sighs and turns around. He quickly rinses Steve’s glass and starts wiping it with a rag that’s been hanging off his shoulder. He dries off the inside, twisting his hand so the rag and glass squeak together like worn window wipers. Back and forth. 

“You staying at the house in the meantime?” Sam tensely asks over his shoulder. His back is tense and his shoulders are nearly at his ears. The glass is still squeaking. Back and forth. 

“Yeah, where else would I go?” Steve responds. His grip loosens on the table and he carefully smooths his fingers over the part he was holding as if he were flattening a ruffled bed sheet. 

Sam inhales deeply through his nose. The back and forth abruptly stops when he pauses his wiping. He pulls his hand out from the glass and then places it on the drying rack. 

“If you’ve got something to say, just say it,” Steve snaps, “clearly something about this is bothering you.” 

“Goddamn it, Rogers,” Sam laughs humorlessly and looks up at the ceiling. Finally, he twists around. He points a finger at Steve and states, “You didn’t hear this from me, and I don’t need you freaking out because it’s probably nothing, but I’d be careful with those woods behind your house.”

Steve stares in shock for a moment, trying to register what Sam just said. When the words finally soak in, Steve’s eyes narrow and his shoulders hunch like Madame Liberty’s when Peggy once tried to give her a bath. 

He points a finger right back at Sam and seethes, “If you even fucking think about mentioning those goddamn hellhounds to me, Sam, I swear to  _ God— _ ”

“ _ No! _ Jesus, no. Not hellhounds,” Sam groans and presses a palm against his forehead. He drops his hand, slowly blows a raspberry and twists his fingers like he’s trying to pluck the right words from thin air, “There’s just... There've been some odd characters who’ve come to town since you left.” 

Steve’s eyes narrow incredulously and he asks, unconvinced, “Odd how?” 

“Just  _ odd _ . It’s a guy and a girl. They come into town sometimes but never stay long. They don’t talk to people either. Girl wears some weird necklace with an eye. The guy laughs a lot but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.” 

“Maybe they’re shy?” 

“Nah, man,” Sam shakes his head, folding his arms and leaning against the counter, “they’re live-alone-in-the-woods kind of odd. Heard they gotta place real far out there, without neighbors or cell service or anything.” 

Steve mumbles to the counter, “Some people might’ve said me and my ma were odd.” 

“Sure,” Sam relents. He leans closer and says lower, “but no one went missing when you and your mom lived here.” 

Steve recoils, almost sending himself toppling backward, but he catches himself on the counter and sputters, “Missing? Who?” 

Sam’s eyes slide to the door, “I switched the sign to closed right?” 

Steve nods.

“Good,” says Sam. 

He leans closer until their forearms touch and Steve feels inclined to tip back. Sam doesn’t notice, but he does say, “No one’s talking about this, and I mean no one, but Falsworths’ son and his girlfriend went for a hike a couple of months back and no one’s seen them since. And last month, Dum Dum Dugan went to the woods to chop some wood for a fire and never came back. 

“Dum Dum goes on drinking binges all the time. Did they check Morley?” 

“Sure, but his little lady swears he always leaves a note. And guess what?” 

“No note?” 

“No note,” Sam affirms. He shakes his head and clucks his tongue, saying, “Shit’s weird and it only started after that couple came to town.” 

Steve stares at Sam for a few beats, letting the information process before he can finally reply with, “No one’s talking about this?” 

“No one.” 

“Not at all?” 

“I’m not shitting you, Steve.  _ No one _ is talking about this.” 

Steve leans back in his chair and bites at his nail. He shakes his head a little and mumbles, “But no one’s gone missing in Canton before. ‘Least not for some time.” 

Sam gives a tense shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’d be careful.” 

“Shit,” Steve wheezes, leaning further against the counter until the wood digs into his ribs, “what the actual fuck?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says, shaking his head before fixing Steve with a firm look. “Just be careful, alright? Don’t go out at night and make sure you lock your doors. If you’re itching to go out to the woods, don’t.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Steve huffs breathlessly, “if she weren’t dead, I’d say you were spending too much time with my mother.” 

“Hey, maybe she had a point,” Sam scolds. “People here treated her like shit, but that doesn’t mean she was wrong.” 

Steve keeps shaking his head and mumbles another, “What the fuck?” 

Sam cracks a cheerless smile. “You want that drink now?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this later than I would have liked, but I just got home from work smh. 
> 
> See you all tomorrow for chapter 4!


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"In the pines, where the sun don't ever shine,_   
>  _I will shiver the whole night through"_

The trees breathe around here. The branches have a life of their own, snapping as if someone’s stepping on them. And if Steve listens closely, presses his ear against the wall and holds his breath, the wind starts howling. 

It happens first when the clock strikes three. 

It’s a placebo. Steve’s sure of it. It’s only there because Sam put the fear of God in him. And then there’s the stress of moving, of coming back to a town he’d sworn to forget about, of figuring out how to fit his work into this. 

It’s late. He should be long asleep. But instead, he’s tucked up on the couch with Madame Liberty curled up on his stomach. He’s scrolling through his phone looking for realtors in his price range when a branch snaps outside. 

He shoots up like a light, chest tight and body stiff. Madame Liberty makes a displeased growl and hops from his lap. 

Maybe it’s just his imagination. Maybe he hasn’t slept enough since he refused to go into the bedroom. Maybe his mind decided this is a good time to mess with him.

But out in the dark, late-night where only hoodlums, rodents, and birds are awake, a deep, guttural growl shakes the forest leaves and Steve’s shitty windows. 

Steve covers his face with his pillow and tries to go to sleep. 

“I’m being ridiculous,” he grumbles to himself before switching the window latch three times. 

It happens again the next night. This time it wakes him from a deep sleep. 

Madame Liberty’s shaking under the couch. 

“This is insane,” he admits under his breath and pushes a kitchen chair underneath the door handle. 

Once again, the growls call out. Steve’s stiff as a corpse under his quilt. He can’t blink his eyes or breathe. His inhaler is clutched in his fist. 

_ Go to sleep, you moron,  _ he wants to say, but he can’t feel or move his lips. 

It goes and it goes and it goes. It shakes right through him until his stomach aches. 

He doesn’t say anything as he carries Ma’s cast iron pan to bed with him. He cuddles it like a teddy bear and begs for sleep to come. 

It’s right at his door this time. He swears it. 

He’s choking down camomile tea and counting back from one hundred in his head in hopes that will make fatigue take hold of him. 

As soon as his eyes start to droop and he finds he’s holding the mug a little too loosely, it happens. 

A growl, deep and loud, shakes the walls. Steve jolts on the couch and shuffles backward, gripping the blanket and raising it higher up his chin. 

_ I’m crazy,  _ he thinks.  _ I’m absolutely insane.  _

He’s petrified in his spot and completely useless. The growls continue and the door noticeably trembles. He can’t tear his eyes away. He can’t run. He can’t pray. 

Madame Liberty is yowling behind him. Her eyes are wide and clear and she’s screaming and screaming. 

A loud screech, like nails on the chalkboard, sounds at the door. Claws slowly drag down and rip up paint and wood until there’s a loud thump and a whine. 

And suddenly, it stops. It’s like a movie without credits or pulling a lamp’s plug from the wall in the pitch black of night. It just ends. 

Steve doesn’t go to sleep that night. He’s too busy shaking cartoonishly under his blanket. 

In the morning, he concludes that’s the reason why he’s been hearing noises in the first place. 

“I’m tired,” he claims and chugs his second cup of black coffee without waiting for it to cool, “That’s it. I’m just tired. It’s all in my head.” 

He heads out that morning to get some fresh air. It would do him some good to go to town, say hi to Sam, look up realtors from out of town who can help him sell his house. As he steps outside and closes the door to lock it, he comes face to face with five long, jagged, black burn marks torn down the front of his door. 

There are large paw prints burnt into the porch, making a trail from the door to the steps and then disappearing into the trees. 

Steve blinks. He puts a hand on his hip and tilts his head. 

“Huh,” he breathes and takes a step back. 

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go to the library and see what they have on bears and mountain lions in Canton. 

Because it’s obviously, decidedly, and undeniably  _ not  _ hellhounds. 

Old books have this certain musty smell that’s too subtle to be disturbing. That’s the way this library smells, only there are so many books here that all those smells accumulate and it gets nauseating. 

Steve didn’t spend too much time here as a kid. His ma got him a library card for his ninth birthday, yet he could only talk himself into checking out books three times. Once was for a school project, the next was a cookbook to make Ma a nice dinner for Mother’s Day, and the last was during a particularly harsh summer when he just wanted to sit in a place with some AC. 

Brock Rumlow was there with his little brother and the second Steve walked in Rumlow yelled, “Get the fuck out, Doggy Rogers. You’ll stink up the library.” 

Steve got so riled up that he egged Rumlow into a fight behind the building.

Rumlow obviously won and Steve went home with three jammed fingers and a broken nose. 

He makes a beeline towards the archives, hoping to dig up something in this town’s past about bears or coyotes and rabid people from the woods who could terrorize poor Steve Rogers at night. 

Nope. Nada. Zilch. 

Steve has dug through eight different Canton wildlife books, countless online forums, and yellow newspaper articles dating all the way back to 1845 when the town was founded. He’s looked through so many dusty books that it sparked up his asthma and he spent thirteen minutes wheezing in a handicapped stall with his head between his knees. 

Sure, there are black bears in their forest and other predatory wildlife, but only once was there ever a report of a man being attacked by one. Even so, it only happened because he taunted it with a cheese sandwich back in 1947. 

Steve also can’t find a thing about bears growling and attacking houses willy nilly. The same goes for coyotes, mountain lions, and even wolves. These things don’t attack unless they’re provoked and Steve can’t think of a single thing he could’ve done that would’ve provoked them. 

He groans and flops his head down on the table scattered with books, newspaper scraps, and index cards. His head clunking against the table sends a few cards scattering and papers flying to the floor, but he’s too exhausted to clean them. 

Maybe he should’ve been looking up symptoms of insomnia. 

He doesn’t remember how he got from point A to point B, but he finds himself back in the computer section looking at lore.com. 

Perhaps it’s to put his mind at ease. It’s for him to see that hellhounds don’t growl or scratch at doors. Hell, it’s to remind himself that hellhounds don’t exist. 

After he scrolls past countless creepypastas and comedic forums, he finds pages of hellhound lore and stories of sightings. 

He clicks on the first credible article, leans his chin on his hand, and reads. 

These devil dogs reportedly came from Greek mythology. Hades, the only God to reject Olympus as a home, resided in and ruled the underworld. He had a pet dog named Cerberus, a three-headed fire-breathing giant with the tail of a snake. 

From there, the beast took many forms. Tiangou, Okuri-inu, Barghest, and Black Shuck. Each accumulating different features and traits, from shapeshifters to human eaters to protectors of the supernatural. Some say they’re an omen for death. They leave scorch marks in their wake. Others say that they timidly reside in the moors and scatter at the sight of humans. There’s even some who claim the hounds are the spark that lights Armageddon. Most believe that they never leave the world beneath us. 

There’s nothing to be said about them coming after people who’ve made a deal or seeking out humans in their homes. 

There is, however, plenty on their coarse fur, their terrible stench, their red eyes, and their awful, petrifying growl. 

Steve clicks article after article. There are pictures of all different interpretations, yet it’s all the same dog. He clicks and he clicks, leaning closer to the screen until his nose just about touches it. He can’t seem to drag his eyes away. There’s so much more to them than his mother ever said and if they are real,  _ if _ , then he has a right to be terrified. 

A petite blonde woman, Angie Martinelli, loudly clears her throat beside him. 

Steve startles and turns towards her. She’s giving him a pointed glare, looking sternly at him and then the screen. She clears her throat again. 

Steve looks back to his screen, which is completely covered with an image of a big, black beast. Blood drips from its mouth, yet its eyes are the brightest red. 

He quickly closes the tab, grabs his bag from the floor, and stumbles out an apology. 

Angie shakes her head at his retreating form. 

“Guess nothing changes about those Rogers,” she comments to a man sitting across from her. She turns to him and says, “It’s a shame.” 

He shrugs, but doesn’t take his eyes away from where he’s looking up deals on tractors when he says, “He’s just like his mother.” 

“Sam!” Steve calls, bursting through the doors of The Falcon’s Beak just as the sun was settling down for the night. His chest compresses like a balloon filled all the way up inside and pushes against his sternum. 

Given the time of night, it’s significantly more crowded than the first time Steve visited. There are singles crowding the bar counter and groups of coworkers or long time friends cozied in the booths. 

Sam jostles from where he’s standing and chatting with the cook through the kitchen window. 

Steve vaguely remembers the cook’s name and thinks it might be Randy or Riley or Rider. Sam hired him soon before Steve left town and Steve thinks he remembers him being nice. He was new to town, and Sam really liked him. Gushed about him the entire ride to the city, and when Steve jokingly asked if Sam had a crush, Sam just punched him in the arm and kept on gushing. 

“Hey, Steve!” the cook greets with a wave of his spatula.

“Hey, Randy,” Steve greets quickly without looking at him. 

“It’s Riley,” the cook mutters under his breath as he goes back to flipping burgers. 

“Doggy Rogers,” a middle-aged woman who worked with his ma cheers from a full table. She lifts her glass in greeting, “long time, no see.” 

“Yeah,” Steve mutters and waves her off, barely offering her a glance as he storms up to Sam, “can I talk to you for a minute?” 

Sam eyes him carefully, analyzing him as if he were a book. 

“You sleeping okay?” Sam asks, then drops his voice to mutter. “‘Cause I text you at least once a month so I know you know Riley’s name.” 

It dawns on Steve that Sam has in fact been with Riley for maybe a year now, and he should remember that because Sam’s his friend. 

“Steve,” Sam presses when Steve doesn’t answer, ducking his head to catch Steve’s eye. “Are you sleeping?” 

Steve rolls his eyes and hisses, “Yes, I’m sleeping! Look it’s important, alright? Really.” 

“Sure, man. Whatever you say,” Sam relents, but he doesn’t change his expression or turn away. He sighs and turns to the group he was serving at the counter, giving them a closed teeth grin, “Y’all mind if I step away for a minute?” 

“Sure,” a hefty, mustached man in a ball cap mutters into his cup, “you go take care of that.” 

Sam pointedly ignores him and grabs Steve’s arm to drag him to the other side of the bar before he can start anything. 

Sam looks back at Riley, who gestures at Steve exasperatedly. Sam waves him off before dropping Steve by a stool. 

“How about a drink?” Sam offers. 

“Is that all you do now? Offer people drinks?” 

“Have you seen where I work?” 

Sam sneaks behind the bar and grabs the nearest bottle of booze and a clean shot glass. Steve hops onto a vacant stool. 

A thick drunkard is to his right and a college girl with her friends is on his left. The two of them are decently distracted and the bar’s loud enough that Steve can talk about what he wants without someone butting in with,  _ “Looks like Doggy Rogers is at it again.”  _

Sam’s back is still to him when Steve says, “You know people say they don’t touch humans? That they’re only up here to, I don’t know, protect other supernatural beings? Lots of others seem to think that if you look at them three times, you drop dead.” 

Sam turns around, nose wrinkled and whiskey filled shot glass in his hand. 

“Huh?” he asks. 

Steve’s picking at the counter. His face is dark and serious when he continues, “And I can’t find a thing about any deals. Looks like Canton came up with that part after all. But there was plenty on them tearing people apart in the woods.” 

Sam smacks the glass on the counter and grips the sides when he growls, “Goddamn hellhounds.” 

“So why would they be here?” Steve mumbles, then shoots his eyes up to clarify, “Not that I think they really are because they’re not, but  _ if  _ they were, what reason would they have to be? Even if someone made a deal, that doesn’t mean hellhounds would come after them.” 

“Steve,” Sam groans, “let it rest, man. No one here believes in that shit anymore. All you’re gonna do is freak yourself out. And everyone else out, while you’re at it.” 

“I know, I know!” Steve exclaims, “I don’t believe in that shit either. I just found some books and figured I’d read up on it.” 

“Right,” Sam huffs and grabs a rag from beneath the counter to wipe up some liquid rings left from cold glasses. 

The bell chimes at the entrance, causing Sam to look up from his cleaning. His expression falls and his eyes bug out. 

“Shit,” he hisses and smacks Steve on the arm with his towel. 

“Ow. What?” 

Sam quirks his chin towards the entrance before he ducks his head back down and resumes his counter wiping. 

Steve twists in his seat, awkwardly craning his neck towards the entrance. 

Through the door walks a young couple, maybe in their late twenties. The girl has a red bob and sharp features. Her cheeks are cut in and the bridge of her nose is a perfectly straight line. She takes in the room, eyes are as sharp as everything else on her face as she gazes over every group of patrons. 

The guy looks softer. More approachable. His sandy blonde hair is gelled back as if someone combed it for him and he’s wearing sunglasses inside at night. 

Neither of them is smiling, but the guy’s expression is lighter like he’d just been laughing but the girl’s told him to quit it. 

Both are wearing these godawful necklaces; big blue eye pendants the size of apples held together with rusty chains. 

“How romantic,” Steve comments and twists back to Sam, “you know them?” 

Sam rolls his eyes and pointedly says under his breath, “You’ve got the world’s worst listening skills, Rogers, I swear to God.” 

Steve huffs, “What?” 

Sam smacks his towel on the counter and gestures back to the couple who are settling in at a vacant table in the back corner, “They’re the couple I was telling you about! The one from the woods.” 

“Ooooh,” Steve exclaimed quietly, turning back towards them for a second glance. 

The guy is cackling at something while the girl sharply nudges his side. She has a calculating look on her face, still scanning the room as she says something to the man that makes him shake his head. He still hasn’t taken off his sunglasses. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen that two plenty,” the drunk to Steve’s right grumbles, causing him and Sam to jump. 

The drunk cups a hand over his mouth and blenches, sitting up in his stool to continue, “I caught her in my yard once, waving three fingers in the air and screaming something in Yiddish.” 

“You don’t have a backyard, Ben,” Sam points out. 

Ben waves his hand dismissively.

“The world’s my backyard,” he exclaims, and then points over his shoulder towards the couple to ask, “You see that necklace they got on?” 

Steve and Sam nod. 

“It’s kinda hard to miss,” Steve mutters. 

“Heard it’s used to cast away demons. Some warding spell that witches crafted up deep in our nice Canton woods.” Ben shakes his head scornfully. He laughs and elbows Steve in the side, “Maybe you and your ma should get a set of your own, huh, Doggy Rogers?” 

Steve picks up the shot Sam poured him and lifts it to his lips. 

“My ma’s dead,” Steve informs the drunk. 

“My condolences,” Ben grunts in a disinterested tone, twisting over his shoulder again to get another look at the odd couple. “They’re odd, I tell you. Both of them. Odder than you and your poor ma.” 

Steve shrugs and downs his shot. He coughs around his next set of words. “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion, I suppose.” 

He raises his glass to Sam. “Just one more, okay Wilson?” 

When it happens this time, it’s louder. Nastier. 

Phlegm-y, vibrating snarls that knock at least two pictures off the walls, one of Pa as a boy and Steve’s first-grade school picture. It’s like the beast is trying to prove a point. 

Steve, clad in worn pajamas, is standing on his knees on the couch, holding the cast iron pan like a baseball bat. His noodle arms can barely keep it upright and he’s shaking from either fatigue or terror so the pan keeps knocking against his head. 

Madame Liberty’s fucked off to God knows where. Hopefully somewhere in the house. Steve hasn’t worked up the gall to go look. 

But his face is full of determination. Though his arms are shaking, he’s not about to put the pan down. Though his stomach is aching, he’s not about to run off and hide. 

And the snarls get louder. 

Ma’s flower pot Steve just set up with a bunch of dandelions flies off the counter and crashes on the floor. Shards of yellow terracotta and wilted weeds scatter across the floor. 

And the snarls get louder. 

The doors are shaking, bulging in and out like the house is breathing. It threatens to burst open and let the beast inside to rip him to pieces. 

One by one, his torn limbs will lay across the floor. No one will find them until they’re just bones. Not even Sam will think to come to look for a couple of days at least. 

The snarls stop. 

They end with a thud and whimper, like last time. 

The vibrating growls are replaced with moving silence. It buzzes around Steve as he blinks at the door. It’s silent for a few minutes at least. 

Steve sighs and lowers the pan, lips quirking up to laugh at himself. 

“God, Rogers,” he laughs, dropping the pan to his side. He lifts his free hand to rub at his forehead, “you’re really losing it. Getting nervous over some goddamn wind.” 

A knock sounds at the door. Three sharp taps. 

Steve jolts and scrambles over the couch. The cast-iron pan jolts with him and knocks off his glasses, breaking a hinge and taking the temple with it. They fall lopsided on his face as he crouches on the floor, hiding behind the arm of the couch and cradling the pan to his chest. 

His right visions blurred. His back is to the door. He’s trembling like a leaf. 

The knock rings again, sharper this time. 

Steve wants to yell at them to go away, to get off his property before he does something about it, but his words are stuck inside his windpipe. 

And he shakes and shakes the whole night through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, looks like Steve might have gotten himself into some trouble by coming back after all! 
> 
> Thank you all for the kudos, bookmarks, and comments (especially those with some really good predictions. I didn't want to respond quite yet because I don't want to spoil anything lol) 
> 
> See you all tomorrow for chapter five! 
> 
> -Emily


	6. Chapter Five

As soon as the sun’s up, Steve rushes from his spot behind the couch to the kitchen. His joints ache, his neck’s stiff, and the pan feels heavier than two elephants. 

He sets the pan on the counter and grabs the dusty roll of scotch tape from the junk drawer with shaky fingers. 

Just as he’s about to pull the first strip, his phone buzzes on the counter. 

Steve jerks, dropping the plastic dispenser on the counter. It lands with a soft click that could’ve been a gunshot for the ring it leaves in Steve’s ear. 

Steve rolls his eyes at himself and mutters, “Get it together, Rogers.” 

He picks up the tape and leans towards his phone to read the message lit up on the screen. 

_ Sam Wilson: you doing any better? You seemed out of it yesterday _

Steve reads the message again, rolling his head from side to side as he ponders a way to answer. Lying and saying he’s fine isn’t going to do any good because Sam will just come over to throttle him into telling the truth. 

Steve relents and grabs his phone to type the best reply he can think of. 

_ Steve: so so  _

He rips off a decent length of tape and attempts to roll it around the temple of his glasses, right where the screw came off. Only his hands are still shaking so the tape gets twisted and stuck to his fingers. The glasses dance in his hands and fall onto the counter. 

He growls and smacks both hands on the counter before aggressively ripping the tape from his fingers. 

Madame Liberty decides now is the best time to come out of hiding. 

She struts into the kitchen and wraps herself around Steve’s ankles, meowing up at him for breakfast. 

He tries to shake her off when he gets his next message. 

_ Sam: you need to get out of that house, man. Constantly stressing out about cleaning and selling it can’t be helping with anything.  _

Steve inhales deeply through his nose and holds it for a second. He keeps holding it as he types his reply. 

_ Steve: What do you suggest?  _

Then he lets it out, whistling through his nose like a deflating balloon. 

His phone shakes and lights up again. When Steve leans over the counter to read the new message, he can practically see Sam’s sly grin. 

_ Sam: you’ll see ;) _

“Won’t it save you money if we just went to  _ your  _ bar?” Steve grumbles, fist under his chin and he presses up against the window of Sam’s truck. 

“I said I’d get you out of Canton, didn’t I?” Sam snarks as he opens his door. Sam waves his hand over to the flashy bar in front of them. “We’re out of Canton.” 

“Barely,” Steve grumbles before he pops his door open and starts climbing out. 

They are two towns over, a lively college town called Middleton. All the people who lived here were temporary. In all the times Steve came here for confirmation retreats or optometrist appointments, he’d never seen the same face twice. Even the optometrist changed regularly. 

Now it is no different. 

Young gaggles of girls in tight dresses and straightened hair weave around them. Drunk boys teeter like slinkies. They’re all probably too young to drink, but they loiter around the entrance. 

Bright purple and blue lights flash from inside and loud thumping music seems to shake the pebbles lying on the asphalt. 

“Thought you said you wanted me to relax,” Steve grunts, stepping around distracted twenty-one-year olds who stumble in and out of the bar. 

“I said I wanted you to get out of the house,” Sam smiles as they walk up to the entrance. “You can thank me later.” 

“Riley didn’t want to come?” Steve asks, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. 

Sam’s mouth twists awkwardly. “He was tired.” 

“And he hates me,” Steve adds. 

“He doesn’t  _ hate  _ you,” Sam argues with a roll of his eyes before grabbing the door handle. “It was a long day is all. Caught him in a bad mood.” 

“Yeah, your perfect and too nice boyfriend was in a bad mood. Okay,” Steve mutters sarcastically as Sam pulls open the door. 

It opens to reveal a world of strobe lights and red-faced college students. The boys have taken off their shirts. The girls are wearing heels higher than the length of Steve’s hand, from wrist to his longest finger. 

Boys stand on tabletops, wearing their hats backward, and pump their fists to the wrong beat of the music. 

Girls cheer them on, grinning from their stools. Their foreheads and cheeks shimmer with grease and sweat. All of their hair has fallen flat. 

A mass of bodies crowd the dance floor and flay their limbs to the nauseating beat. They move and sway and gyrate a type of dancing Steve has never seen before. A heavy cloud of smoke hangs above them as smog would stick to a city. At least four kids in Steve’s viewpoint are holding stubby blunts that glow red from one side. 

“College kids,” Sam complains over the music. “Makes me glad I didn’t go.” 

There’s something in the undercurrent of his tone, though. A contradictory hesitation. Something that says he really wishes he did. 

Because how fun it would have been to be adults but not be. To put off carrying your parent’s burdens for another few years. To go out and dance on tables with your friends. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with the same hidden tone, “me, too.” 

When Sam tries to steer them toward the dance floor, Steve makes an excuse about his asthma and drags Sam the other way. 

“And I haven’t even had anything to drink!” he grins with dull eyes and pulls Sam towards the bar counter. 

The bartender doesn’t look old enough to drink. His face holds a youthful flush. 

Sam and Steve both know he’s not in college by the panicked look in his expression, the way he darts across the counter to pour drinks like a servant to the elite. These kids don’t even say thank you. They probably don’t tip. 

The bartender doesn’t say a word before flying towards Sam and Steve, grabbing two shot glasses and the nearest bottle, grape-flavored vodka, and filling the glasses in front of them. 

“Thank you,” Steve says. 

Sam waves his hand dismissively at his glass, and the bartender raises his eyebrows as a silent question. 

Sam nods and the bartender shrugs and snatches the glass away to drop it in front of a beet-red faced frat boy whose biceps are thicker than Steve’s torso. 

The boy cheers and throws back the glass, already swaying when his friends scream along. 

“Still funny,” Steve comments over the ridge of his glass, “the bartender who doesn’t drink.” 

Sam smirks, “I’ve seen too many bad hangovers and cleaned up too much puke to wanna pick up their bad habits.” 

Steve raises his glass and nods towards Sam in cheers. 

Sam smiles and bumps the glass with his fist. 

Steve puts the glass to his lips, shakes his head, and tips the glass back. 

It burns all the way down his throat and up his nostrils. It feels like his insides are being singed and his nose hairs are burnt clean off. 

He scrunches his face and gags, sputtering, “Tastes like spicy cough syrup.” 

“Taste like shit, more like,” Sam comments, craning his neck to get a better look at the well used and watered down bottles on display. “I mean, I buy cheap booze, but even I have higher standards than  _ Svedka _ .” 

There isn’t a response to give to that, so Steve doesn’t give one. He circles his finger on the ring of the glass and normally that would make it sing, but it is silent under the music tonight. 

They don’t speak for a few moments, each glance towards each other at opposite times and roll their tongues along their cheeks as they attempt to catch words to say. 

“Hey,” Sam says as gently as he can over the music. 

Steve doesn’t turn his head, but he slides his eyes over towards Sam.

“Hm?” he grunts. 

Sam claps a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder and grasps it firmly. He shifts so he’s facing Steve directly and softens his expression. 

Steve has to turn his eyes back to the table and bite his bottom lip very hard. He  _ knows  _ Sam’s ‘I’m about to give you a sympathetic pep talk because I’m a kind and concerned friend’ face. And Steve  _ hates  _ that face. 

“I know things have been hard for you,” Sam starts, and Steve ducks his head to inconspicuously roll his eyes, “but I want you to know that I’m here for you.” 

Steve swallows and replies with a bitter, “Thanks.” 

And to be polite, he twists slightly towards Sam and forces his lips to curve up a tad. 

Sam nods and drops his hand. 

“You donate that stuff yet?” he asks. 

It catches Steve off guard because he hadn’t even thought of that stuff since opening the damn box a few days back. He hasn’t thought about it despite needing to walk around all of them every time he walks from the living room to the kitchen. 

They’re currently sitting like spilled popcorn left unswept, scattered across the living room floor. 

“Yeah!” he states, a nonchalant shrug as he turns the shot glass between his fingers. He peers over the counter and thinks about waving over the frazzled bartender, but upon seeing his panicked face, Steve decides against it. 

“Steve,” Sam deadpans. 

“I have!” 

Sam raises an eyebrow. 

“I have,” Steve insists firmly, but the longer Sam stares him down, the more his resolve starts to crack. 

He exhales and his shoulders cave in. He drops his head in his hands and tugs his fingers through his hair, “I mean, no, I haven’t. God, I really thought Doggy Rogers would be the worst thing about coming back here. It’s not even close.” 

“You ever think about talking to someone?” Sam asks.

“No!” Steve snaps but takes a breath to calm himself right after to continue, “Well, I have, I just don’t want to talk to someone I don’t know about something that happened years ago. And I can’t afford it anyway. Aren’t therapists supposed to be like thousands of dollars?” 

“Steve, that something that happened years ago was walking in on—” 

“I’m getting another drink,” Steve states, leaning across the counter and waving a little frantically to catch the bartender’s attention. 

And he should’ve seen this coming really. He was stupid not to, with the fumes and the crowd and the talking and the nerves and compressing his lungs against a hardwood counter. 

Steve shouldn’t be surprised when suddenly he’s wheezing so bad he can’t hear Sam’s next statement. 

He pushes away from the counter, folds in half, and clutches at his chest, gasping like a dying fish out of water. 

“Steve?” Sam asks, jumping out of his stool panicked. 

Steve tries to wave him off, to let him know he’s okay and he doesn’t need any help, but the wheezing gets wheezier. 

Sam grabs the back of Steve’s jacket and starts to steer him outside. 

Steve struggles a bit, digs through the front pocket of his jeans, and pulls out a crumpled ten to slap on the counter before Sam can pull him out the door. 

By the time Steve doesn’t need to sit with his head between his knees, it is already well past midnight. 

Sam went inside to get Steve some more water, so Steve sits alone with his knees to his chest and his rear in the dirt. 

A chill passes through the air, one cool enough that Steve shivers and wraps his arms around himself tighter. It would’ve been smart to have worn a jacket or jeans that aren’t so thin, but he isn’t about to complain about that now. 

His glasses are smudged from gripping them in his hands as he fought to catch his breath. 

Since the frame is crooked and the lenses are smudged, putting them back on disorients him. The smudges make the light from the street lamps fuzzy. The right lens only covers half of his eye, creating a sharp divide between clear and blurry. 

Steve huffs, and moves them so they lay straight. 

It’s not as woodsy out here as it is in Canton, but tall pine trees still sit just beyond the parking lot. The leaves shake but their branches sit still. It’s eerier when they move like this. There’s something unsettling about the lifeless branches birthing leaves that breathe. It leaves something unpredictable in the air. 

If the leaves can breathe, what else will happen? 

Sam strategically put Steve in a spot right below a street lamp just outside of the bar so he’d be easier to find. Unfortunately, it also makes him easier to see for anyone else in this lot. 

Two minutes after Sam went inside, a stumbling girl with braces had asked Steve if he had a cigarette. 

He’d lifted his inhaler for an answer. 

“Oh,” she’d droned, before ungracefully stumbling away to find her friends. 

After that, Steve has been left in vibrating silence. Cars rumble through the lot and kick up dirt as they go. College kids chortle, squeal, and yell inside. The ground still shakes from the music, but it’s just a far off thump that makes Steve a little nauseous. 

Where he’s sitting, the noises fade together and drift to him lazily. They’re dull when they finally meet him. 

Gravel crunches under steel-toed boots and breaks the dull quiet of the night. They walk up to Steve and stop beside his right side. 

“You get the water?” Steve asks just before looking up, and when he does he tenses.

Standing above him is a dark-haired, tan-skinned, and sneer-grinning man. His hair’s tousled and his clothes are as black as the back part of the lot where the street lights no longer work. 

There’s a car parked in that dark part of the lot with a driver who pulled in not long after Steve and Sam did, only Steve doesn’t know that. 

“Doggy Rogers!” the dark-haired man greets above him, crouching down to almost Steve’s level but still keeping himself above by a few inches. He smacks Steve on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him. “Heard you were back in town!” 

“Rumlow,” Steve coughs in greeting. His heart kicks up and his chest feels tight again, “here to pick up barely legal college girls?” 

Brock’s grin morphs more into a sneer as he snarks, “‘Least I went to college.” 

Steve works his jaw, sweaty hands fiddling with his inhaler when he risks the next comment. “So going to college for a semester and failing out still counts as going?” 

Brock’s sneer leaves to make room for a full-on glare. His eyebrows droop over his eyes. His lips twist to the side and slowly part to reveal the side of his canine-like teeth. 

Steve smirks at his small victory and says, “Word still gets around quick.” 

Brock forcefully settles his face, feigning jest when he shrugs and says, “Guess I’ll have to kick Wilson’s ass then. He and his ma are the only ones who still feel sorry enough to talk to you.” 

Upon mention of Sam, Steve turns back over his shoulder towards the bar, suddenly wondering what the hell is taking him so long. 

He can’t look for long though because Brock grabs his shoulder and shakes him. He barks a loud laugh like they’re good pals out having a nice time. 

Steve’s head bobbles enough to cramp his neck before he twists and swats Brock away.

“Jesus, you’ve gotten crazier, haven’t you?” Steve grumbles and rubs at his neck. 

He scootches to the side to put more distance between him and Brock, but Brock just scootches right over too. They’re sitting so close that their arms are pressed together. 

Steve knows what an intimidation tactic is. He’s been on the receiving end of them one too many times to ignore it. It shouldn’t scare him anymore, yet Brock’s thick, sticky arm coated with coarse hair pressing against his boney one is terrifying. 

“Well, what’ve you been up to, Rogers?” Brock pesters, grinning again and elbowing Steve in the side. “What’ve you been doing in that big old city?” 

Steve shrugs and grunts, “Nothing.” 

“Nothing?” Brock mocks, widening his eyes like an innocent calf. “You’ve been there for five years and you’ve done nothing? You haven’t even found yourself a little woman yet?” 

Brock leans down to get a better look before he laughs at Steve’s broken glasses and snarks, “Or contacts?” 

Steve swallows and turns away, glaring at the ground when he spits, “No.” 

“Well, I’ve been doing great,” Brock grins, leaning back against the pole and crossing his arms above his head before boasting, “Got me a pretty woman. Nice house. Did Wilson tell you I’m running for chief of police in Morley? Ain’t got much competition either. Last poll check had me leading about forty percent.” 

“If you’re running for chief in Morley then why’re you still in Canton?” Steve asks, refusing to bite at the competitive bait Brock is leaving. 

Brock shrugs and says, “Figured I’d stay close to my mom, since she’s still alive and all.” 

That anger that started blooming in Steve’s stomach all those years ago suddenly bubbles with acid. 

Steve twists towards Brock and balls his hands into fists. “Don’t you fucking dare bring my mom into this, alright? Don’t you dare.” 

Brock whistles and lifts his hands, fighting off a smile when he says, “Jesus, Doggy, no need to get riled! It was just a joke.” 

Steve backs down, turning away again with a scoff. “It wasn’t a good one.” 

“Hey, I’m glad you’re back, Rogers, really,” Brock says, putting his hand over his heart to feign sincerity, “we can finally get that junk house of yours cleaned up so it stops lowering our house values.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and bites, “Yeah, anytime.” 

And they fall into silence. The pines continue their dance behind them and in front. Laughter breezes through the air. 

Steve fiddles with his inhaler and keeps his eyes on the ground. He wants nothing more than to bolt back inside and tell Sam they need to leave because if he has to talk to Brock for another minute, he’ll lose it. 

“Hey,” Brock says and nudges Steve’s arm. 

Steve sighs and turns toward Brock with a sour expression. 

Brock smirks and raises his hand. He pats Steve on the face like a dog and says, “You’ve done good, kid.” 

Steve scoffs and shoves him away. He pushes himself onto his feet and starts marching back to the bar, calling over his shoulder, “Get fucked, Rumlow.” 

Brock’s head falls back as he cackles and calls, “I’m trying!” 

Steve doesn’t slow down his return until he’s throwing open the door of the bar. He runs smack into Sam’s chest, who was just about to head out to look for him. 

The glass of water Sam is carrying spills backward onto him. 

“Steve!” Sam scolds, wiping off the spilled water from his drenched shirt. 

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles distractedly, stepping back a bit and saying, “Hey, let’s go to that bar two blocks down.”

Sam’s still scrubbing at his shirt when he asks, “Why?” 

Steve shrugs and looks back over his shoulder towards the lot. He can’t see out anymore because the door’s in the way, but he’s willing to bet Brock’s still out there waiting for Steve’s return. 

Steve’s shaking. He’s shaking and his heart is tumbling and his stomach hurts and he hates that after all these years, Brock still has this effect on him. He didn’t realize it until he came back into the bar but he’s fucking shaking. All it takes is a five-minute confrontation with his childhood bully and suddenly he’s panicking like he’s seven-years-old getting taunted on the playground. 

“Steve?” Sam asks, a line pinching between his low set brows. He’s stopped rubbing at his shirt to instead focus all his attention on his spooked friend. 

Steve snaps his head back towards Sam’s. He blinks blankly and bobs his shoulders up and down. 

“This one’s too crowded.” 

The bar two blocks over on Canyon Road is a family-owned pub. A grizzly older gentleman drums his fingers on the counter while his rosy-cheeked wife delivers cheap appetizers to the cackling crowd of fresh-faced students. 

The man lights up upon seeing at least one grown adult. He doesn’t pay Steve too much mind as he waves them over to the counter. 

“Glad to see one grown face here,” the man smiles as he drops a shot glass in front of Sam and begins filling it up with whiskey. It glug, glug, glugs full before he finally turns to Steve and grunts, “you want a juice or something?” 

Steve gives his best Pan Am smile to say, “I’m actually older than him.” 

He quirks his chin towards Sam, who nods in affirmation. 

Sam grabs his glass and slides it towards Steve, saying, “and I don’t drink.” 

The man blinks owlishly, eyelids quickly descending over his eyes before shooting back open. His head darts back and forth between the two of them, before finally stopping at Steve to ask, “So booze then?” 

Steve gives a sour grin. “Oh yeah. Lots of booze.” 

The pub closes at midnight. Steve makes Sam drive to another bar. 

His mind gets a little fuzzy at the third. 

He can’t stop laughing at the fifth. 

His eyes won’t stay open by the sixth. 

Steve’s head is underwater. Everything sounds muffled and echoed. His brain is too heavy for his cranium so he leans it against Sam’s bicep. It hurts to keep his eyes open so they stay closed as he listens to the currents. 

“Alright, I’m calling it,” Sam's muffled voice mixes in with the tide. 

Steve smiles blissfully and pats Sam’s arm. 

While Sam’s pulling him out to the parking lot, he doesn’t notice the car sitting in the unlit part of the lot. He doesn’t know the driver watching them through his front window. 

He doesn’t know that the man clicks his tongue and mutters, “God, he’s dumber than I thought.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooh who do you think could be in the car? The answer probably won't surprise you. 
> 
> See you tomorrow for chapter 6!  
> -Emily


	7. Chapter Six

The hour is two. 

Sam’s carrying Steve bridal style into the house, and Steve’s laying in his arms like a limp noodle.

His arms are overcooked spaghetti and his legs are garden hoses. His head’s tilted so far back it’s a wonder how it doesn’t just tear off. His jaw hangs open and he snores like a chainsaw. 

On a rough step, Steve jostles and snorts. He grumbles something unintelligible before he starts snoring again. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam grunts, “you’re welcome.” 

He already has Steve’s keys in between his fingers so opening the door’s not a problem. Navigating him and Steve through it, however, is. He twists this way and that way and groans and swears as he tries to slide sideways through the entrance without knocking Steve’s head or banging his toes. 

He wouldn’t know that Steve has been sleeping on the couch or that he hasn’t gained the courage to open the door to Ma’s room yet. 

So Sam, without even sparing a passing glance to that lumpy excuse of a couch, beelines to the bedroom. 

He awkwardly worms a hand out to grab the doorknob and twists it while pushing the door open with his hip. 

He scrunches his nose and gags audibly as the musty scent of stale bedsheets and unturned air slams into him like a brick wall. He rushes into the room, depositing Steve a little carelessly onto his mother’s floral bedsheets. 

He also doesn’t see the twin-sized mattress lying on the floor beside the bed

“Goddamn it, Rogers, you ever heard of opening a window?” Sam gags, aggressively pulling the comforter out of it’s neatly tucked corners and haphazardly tossing it over Steve. It covers one leg and half of his stomach, but the rest of him lays out in the open. 

Sam didn’t bother to take off Steve’s shoes or remove the hoodie that Steve spilled an entire bottle of beer on at the fourth bar. Instead, he waves one hand over his nose and uses the other to lay the blanket a little better over his friend. 

He carefully plucks Steve’s broken glasses off his face while he’s there. 

One arm dangles dangerously, threatening to fall off and break the pair completely before Sam sets them on the nightstand next to a framed picture of a nearly toothless seven-year-old Steve. 

Steve lulls his head towards Sam, a dopey smile laying on his face and his eyes softly closed. 

“Hey,” Steve smiles. 

Sam raises an eyebrow as he tucks Steve’s left arm under the smelly blanket, “Hey what?” 

Steve wiggles said arm out from the comforter and raises it to pat Sam’s face. “You done good, kid.” 

Sam rolls his eyes and pushes away from the bed. “Goodnight, Rogers.” 

Steve’s arm falls back onto the mattress. 

As soon as Sam passes the room’s threshold, Steve’s snoring again. 

Sam leaves the house in the same manner that he came in, quickly. But he does lock the door behind him. 

Which is good and all because that beast has already rumbled out its first set of growls. Its heavy paw steps forward and snaps a bush branch, but Sam is already in his car. 

The engine revs and sounds a lot like the beast, loud enough that Sam doesn’t look forward to see the blood-red eyes bearing into his. 

The hour is now three. The witching hour. 

The growl starts low. So low it barely causes an itch under Steve’s skin. 

He sniffs and scratches at his ear, face still smooshed against his pillow and brain mostly clogged with sleep. He snorts and rolls over, trying to chase the lingering bits of sleep he still holds. 

By the time it rumbles and sets in Steve’s stomach, shaking his entire body until he blinks his bleary eyes and lurches like he’s about to vomit, it stops. 

Three knocks take its place. 

Steve groans and drops back down onto his pillow. 

“Oh, Ma,” he slurs into a puddle of his drool drenching the pillowcase, “what’m I gonna do?” 

The knocks don’t just stop this time. They get more and more persistent as time goes on. They get louder and faster until they feel like someone’s knocking right against Steve’s skull, hard enough to leave a dent. 

“Go away!” Steve calls, eyes closed. He waves a dismissive hand. “I’m sleeping!” 

But they knock and knock and knock until Steve falls back to sleep. 

His head shrieks in the morning, swelling like a fat balloon and pressing against his cranium. This is before he even opens his eyes. 

He groans loudly and rolls onto his stomach, pressing his face against his pillow. 

The moldy linen stuffed against his nostrils alerts his mind immediately. 

He blinks his eyes open. Blurred petals flood his vision. 

He gasps and pushes himself up by his palms quickly, mimicking a poorly formed upward facing dog. Below him lie yellowing floral sheets, sheets that hadn’t been washed since— 

In a room that he hasn’t seen since—

Behind a door that he hasn’t opened since— 

His stomach lurches as chunky bile spills through his throat. He lunges himself off the bed, untangling his feet from the comforter and bursting into the hall. He barely makes it to the bathroom before vomiting everything he ate yesterday into the sink. 

The world stops spinning eventually. It always does. But his head still aches like nobody’s business. 

He retapes his glasses. He writes down and calls potential realtors. He cleans the front room, dusts the back ones, scrubs down the bathroom, and debates going into town to buy paint for the door. 

Or, he tries. 

The tape for his glasses snags on his jacket sleeve and gets covered in lint. He manages to sweep about a third of the living room before his asthma kicks in and he has to take a thirty-minute breather. Three of the four realtors are way past his price range and the fourth was on vacation.

He ends up facetiming Peggy for two hours. 

She claims that she called to check in on Steve, see how the moving process is going, and how his lungs were doing. But after talking to him for five minutes, she immediately starts asking to see Madame Liberty. She has Steve pull the cat out from under the couch so she can coo and babytalk her for the better part of an hour. 

After the phone call, he starts pushing boxes into the far corner of the living room so they are no longer in the way. 

He debates calling Sam, thinking that if he got Sam to bring his truck, he can at least bring the boxes to a donation center and Steve won’t have to deal with them. 

But he can’t bring himself to make the call. He can’t look through the boxes, but he can’t have them gone either. These dusty boxes keep Ma in the house and Steve isn’t about to say goodbye just yet. 

He can’t even open the door to his mother’s room again. He has his hand on the handle, sweaty and slipping off the heated metal. His breathing becomes labored and his arms are shaking. Shaking so bad he can’t open the door. 

He can’t. He wants to, but he can’t. 

So he resigns. He shoves himself away from the door with his shoulders caving in, head ducked, and arms limp by his sides. He drags his feet to the living room like a scolded dog. 

He plops down on the couch, feet dangling over the arm farthest from the front door. His arms are above his head and he stares blankly at the popcorn ceiling that may or may not have asbestos. 

It’s then the realization smacks him in the face like an open palm: he’s not going to be able to sell this house. 

He’ll still try. He will. In the end, that’s all he can do. 

Steve’s glasses are still broken that night. That’s also the day he runs out of cat food. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t realize until late when he goes to feed Madame Liberty. 

She circles his ankles and paws at his thigh while he stares at the bottom of the empty bag. 

He breathes very slowly through his nose. Then blows it out his mouth. 

“Fine,” he relents, grabbing his keys from the counter as Madame Liberty yells at his retreating form. 

Guess he’s gotta go shopping. 

Mr. Phillips and his old lady, each crankier than the other, own the only supermarket in town. It has dried goods and fresh goods and artificials and preservatives. They have  _ Hostess  _ goodies for the kids and organic veggies for the moms. 

It’s on the very edge of town, near where Greenwood Street and Fallbrook Road cross. The dark woods sit behind it. 

Mr. Phillips has often complained of raccoons breaking into his store and bears rummaging through his garbage. They left big claw marks on his storefront. The cranky couple was so keen on perfection that they had it covered come morning. 

Steve rolls into the parking lot at half-past nine, thirty minutes before closing. He decided to take his mother’s car for the first time since coming back to Canton because he isn’t stupid enough to walk here at night. 

His car, save for Mr. Phillips’ pick up, is the only one in the lot. 

One of the streetlamps is flickering something awful. The other one is dead. The only solid light comes from the tiny grocery store. 

So focused on his mission, Steve doesn’t notice when another car rolls into the parking lot, it’s headlights dancing as it comes over the steep entrance. It creeps into a parking spot and the engine cuts off with a dull click. 

Steve hops out of his car and is met with a stiff breeze. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself. His threadbare hoodie offers no warmth. The sharp chill in the air cuts right through it and hits his skin. 

Dead leaves pass through the lot, dancing around his ankles and hitting the sliding glass doors. 

“Goddamn it!” Mr. Philllips yells from where he's sweeping the entrance, getting rid of the leaves that snuck inside only for them to blow back in. 

Low tones of scratchy folk music leak from the entrance and dance with the leaves outside. The music gets louder the closer Steve gets to the store. 

“Some weather, huh?” Steve comments with a friendly-enough smile. He sidesteps Mr. Phillips and grabs a handbasket, “Never seen so many brown leaves in the summertime.” 

Mr. Phillips startles, grabbing his broom like a weapon until he sees that it’s nothing but the scrawny little Doggy Rogers. 

He gives Steve a once over. His weathered face drops into an unimpressed stare. 

“Anyone tell you your glasses are broken, Mr. Rogers?” he grumbles, stiffly going back to sweeping. 

Steve’s forced friendly smile wavers as he answers, “Yes, sir. Came here to grab a glasses repair kit is all.” 

“Well get on with it,” Mr. Phillips snaps with a wave of his hand, dismissing Steve as if he’s a stray dog begging for scraps. 

Steve’s face falls for a second before he turns on his heel and marches further into the store. 

It’s not like he’s here to make small talk anyway. If everyone in town is gonna be just as shitty as they were five years ago, then Steve really needs to hurry up and sell that goddamn house. He can’t take another night of snoozing (or shaking) on the couch. 

An old Robert Johnson tune strums and rattles the speakers and around the aisles as Steve seeks what he came here for. 

The basket in Steve’s hand thumps his thigh to a quick beat, keeping in time with his marching. 

He keeps his eyes on his shoes that scuff and squeak on the linoleum tile. The fluorescent rectangular lights reflect on the gleamy tile and follow him as he walks. 

Finally, he reaches the pet supply lane. He makes a sharp turn, his shoes screeching as he does so, and begins to walk down and scan the aisle for the cheapest brand of cat food. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to spoil Madame Liberty—well, honestly he doesn’t—but he just doesn’t have the funds for something like  _ Blue Buffalo.  _

It takes a few minutes because his glasses are still crooked, but he finally finds the cheapest version of  _ Meow Mix _

“Ah-ha,” he whispers, eyes lighting up. 

He’s reaching forward to grab it when a stench hits him like a brick wall. 

Steve halts, nose wrinkling at the smell as he sniffs the air. It’s like sewage, rotten meat, burnt hair or bad eggs. He gags under his breath and looks up towards the air vents. 

God, it smells like something fucking died in there. Something probably did and when the air conditioning kicked in, it sent the stench of the rotting corpse into the grocery store. 

He cups his hand over his nose as he turns on his heel to hurry to the front. 

“Hey, Mr. Phillips!” He calls, jogging towards the entrance where he left the old man sweeping, “Mr. Phillips, I think—” 

There’s no one there. 

The leaves pile inside the door, mucking up the ground. Some of them lay stuck in a distinct puddle of cherry-red. There’s a smear from the puddle that goes out the door, tracking like someone was dragged through it. 

Steve stares at the blood, his chest heaving and compressing like he might be having another attack. He can’t close his eyes. He can’t turn away. His muscles freeze into pieces like concrete. A sharp pain shoots through his body from the crashing of his heart. 

Just as he’s about to run out the door and scream for help, he feels it. 

Hot breath on the back of his neck. It huffs in time to something panting behind him. 

Those pants turn into a snarl; this deep, rich, and guttural sound. The kind that once plagued his sleep. 

A snarl that rumbles through him like it's breaking his skin and digging into his bones. Something wet and sticky sounds with the snarl, like its fat tongue is sticking out to lick at its chops. It’s right behind him. He can feel it on his neck, on his ears, on his back. 

The beast jumps forward and snaps its jaw, but before it can latch its teeth onto Steve’s skin and sink them into his flesh like butter, Steve bolts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bum bum BUUUMMMMM
> 
> My friends, we have now entered the Twilight Zone. 
> 
> I hope you aren't all too scared at the end of this chapter! See you tomorrow for chapter seven where we'll see whether or not Steve was able to survive...


	8. Chapter Seven

_They won’t even think twice before they get you, Stevie,_ Ma whispers with the wind. _They’ll tear you apart._

Her words whistle by Steve’s ears as he sprints through the abandoned parking lot. 

Heavy paws galloping behind him shake the asphalt. Panting breaths hit Steve’s legs as it comes closer. 

Fear bubbles through Steve’s stomach until it rises like a scream in his throat.

“Help!” he shrieks to no one. “Someone help me!” 

The hound snaps its jaw and Steve can feel its teeth barely graze his ankles. 

His chest is tightening. His esophagus is shrinking. His lungs are closing in. 

He can feel an asthma attack about to begin. But he can’t stop to catch his breath. He can’t grab his inhaler. If he stops, the beast will sink its teeth into his leg. It will drag him into the forest. No one will know that the small white fragments and pinkish-grey chunks left behind were once him. 

His glasses shake on his face, making his vision go from sharp to blurry every second. It disorients him and makes him nauseous, but it’s a feeling he forces to the back of his mind. 

Steve can feel its breath, hot and tacky, on his back. 

It snarls with its sharp teeth gleaming and yellow on display. It opens its mouth so wide that if Steve looked, he’d be able to see the black pit of nothing past the beast’s throat. 

Steve hears its drool squelching on the ground and the pungent smell of rotting corpses and dying flesh swelters Steve until he feels like he’s covered in the moist stench of death. 

As he’s beginning to accept his fate because he just can’t breathe, the mysterious car at the back of the lot roars to life. 

It flashes its high beams and its tires spin and shriek until the car races forward. 

The hound, startled, stumbles back a few steps as the blinding headlights stun it and Steve. 

Once Steve registers that it’s a car and that car must hold a person, his heart kicks up with a new kind of adrenaline. He rushes toward it and waves his arms. 

“Help!” he screams again as the car gets closer. 

The car takes a sharp turn and jolts to a stop right in front of him. 

A bulky, shadow-like figure jumps out of the driver’s side and sprints around the car until he reaches Steve. 

This stranger grabs Steve’s wrist in a painful hold before pulling him into his chest and wrapping a secure arm around his back. 

Steve’s about to thank his hero. Tell him to run. To get them out of there before they become piles of gnarled flesh and shredded bones left to rest in this lonely parking lot. 

But when he looks up at the face of this man, he’s met with one he’s never seen before. 

It wouldn’t be so bad, and maybe he could convince himself that this man moved into town while Steve was gone. 

But this man’s eyes are boiling with rage as they glare down at Steve. His nostrils are flared and his lips are pressed so tightly together that all color has been drained from them. 

His face resembles that of a pissed off parent who just had to save their child from running into traffic because they looked away for one goddamn second. He looks furious, like this whole thing is Steve’s fault, and he is horribly inconveniencing this man by making him save his life. 

Steve, terrified, wiggles to release himself from this stranger’s tight hold, but the man just strengthens his grip effortlessly. 

The stranger then flicks his eyes toward the hound and curls his lip. 

Steve can hear the hound behind him skid to an abrupt stop. It seems to take a moment to collect itself before it sets its paws back firmly on the ground, curls its lip right back, and growls lowly. 

It’s a different growl than the one before. The rumbling seems apprehensive as if it feels threatened. 

It cautiously prowls closer, shoulders shifting in a fluid motion with each step it takes. Its low growl, softer but deep within its chest, vibrates through Steve’s stomach and shakes every hair on his body; from his head, to his arms, to his big toe. 

Steve’s about to turn around to look when the stranger’s large, calloused hand grips his jaw in a tight hold and keeps it forward. 

The movement nearly knocks Steve’s glasses off, but they hang on by a thread as the lenses go crooked. 

The stranger growls, “Hasn’t anyone told you not to look?” 

Which is odd for the man to say, considering he’s been staring at this hound the whole time, but Steve isn’t given much time to register that as he’s suddenly pushed into the backseat of the stranger’s car. 

As soon as Steve realizes what happened, he jolts and springs toward the door to shove it open and run back to his car, but the child lock is on. 

“Let me out!” he demands in a panic, quickly realizing that this man might not be much safer than the blood-thirsty hound. 

The man has the nerve to look annoyed as he puts the car in drive and rushes out of the parking lot. The hound’s furious barks and snarls can still be heard leaking through the windows of the car, but they grow more distant the farther the man drives away.

“What the fuck are you?” Steve interrogates in a wheezy tone filled with sheer terror. “Why didn’t it kill you?” 

“Use your damn inhaler,” the man barks, darting his eyes up to glare at Steve through the rearview before focusing them back on the road. 

Steve, out of pure stubbornness, doesn’t comply until the man is looking away. 

When he does, Steve quickly pulls his inhaler out of his pocket, pumps the medicine into his mouth, and takes deep breaths before pumping it again. 

“So you do know how to listen? What a fucking concept,” the man snarks, lip curling as he suddenly turns his car into the woods. “I tried to help you for days and you just ignored me. Well, now look what the fuck happened. It probably knows your scent by heart. Might’ve even gotten a little nibble from your ankles.” 

Steve’s heart cramps in his chest. He nearly shakes as he breaks into a cold sweat, but his body’s been trembling already. 

The chilling realization that this man has been watching him dumps over him like ice water. 

“Were you the one knocking on my door?” Steve wheezes, pumping his inhaler again as he pushes himself against the seat, trying to create the most distance possible between him and that man. 

“Just to get you out of your house,” the man clarifies, obviously running low on patience. “Except you wouldn’t answer, so I had to ward it away every night.” 

The man glances at Steve through the rearview mirror, his grey eyes sharp through the night, as he quips, “Which is exhausting, by the way.” 

The pitch darkness of night is amplified inside of the forest. Shadows of trees look like people until they drive past them. The tree branches quiver and leaves shake a haunting dance that they only do when no one’s around to see it. 

The forest swallows them whole, and still, this man drives deeper inside. 

Steve knows that the door handle won’t work, but he needs out of this fucking car so he can run home, grab his cat, and leave town because fuck Peggy for convincing him to come back here. 

Before they can get too deep for Steve to forget his way out, he twists to the side and brings both feet back to kick them against the window with all the strength he has. 

The man jerks his head back to send a startled look to Steve. He turns forward when the car hits a lump, perhaps a fallen branch or a woodland creature, and jostles them both. 

Steve uses this as a chance to kick the window again, and again when nothing happens. Determined, he lets out a frustrated yell and kicks it once more. 

“Quit kicking my window!” the man yells, blindly reaching back to swat his hand at Steve. 

He misses. 

Steve kicks the window again. 

“Do you not want my help?” the man questions, completely exasperated as he brings his hand back to the wheel. “You want me to throw you to the wolf?” 

Steve yells again and kicks it harder. 

“The worst part isn’t them eating you, you know,” the man threatens through clenched teeth, sounding like a parent who just threatened to pull the car over if their child didn’t stop misbehaving. “It’s everything that happens after.” 

_This has to be a dream_ , Steve rationalizes. This man sounds too much like his mother for it to be anything but a vivid nightmare. But the fear that’s turned sour in his stomach feels very real, and the recurring nightmares he had as a child never tapped into his senses quite as well as this one has. 

Yet, it has to be one because there is no way on God’s green Earth that there is such a thing as hellhounds. 

Right? 

Steve kicks the window again, just to see how real the glass feels under his shoes. There’s a dull thunk. The bottoms of his feet sting from the impact. 

The stranger groans in frustration, harsh enough that it seems to rattle the car. 

At the very least, if this _is_ real, Steve should try to annoy this guy enough so he’ll pull over and Steve can make a run for it because, hell, maybe that was just a stray dog with rabies. 

That would be plausible if it hadn’t ripped Mr. Phillips to shreds and dragged him through his own bloody puddle into the parking lot, leaving an oozy trail for Steve to find. Steve hadn’t heard of many rabid dogs that could do that. 

Still, because he isn’t one to give in without a fight, he sets his face into furrowed determination and kicks the window as hard as he can. 

It rattles and a tiny splinter cracks in the top right corner. 

“Quit it!” the man snaps, swatting at Steve again and missing when Steve strategically rolls out of reach. 

The man brings his hand back up to the front with a huff, slamming it on the steering wheel to better navigate his way through the trees. 

“Look, I can take you home if you want,” he offers, and Steve opens his mouth to accept, but the man hurries in before he can. “But it’s just gonna follow you.” 

Steve brings his legs down, silently rolling over his options. 

“Best I can do for you now is take you someplace safe so we can make a plan,” the man explains, speaking calmer than he has during their entire encounter. 

Steve doesn’t care much for the tone though, because it feels patronizing and he sure as hell isn’t stupid. 

He huffs and crosses his arms, glancing over at the man who’s looking expectantly at him through the rearview mirror. 

Without looking, Steve gives the window another, smaller kick. 

“Can you please stop kicking my window?” the man bites, eyes narrowing. “If it breaks, I can’t afford a new one.” 

“Why would you help me?” Steve snaps, sitting up so he could glare at him effectively. “You don’t know me.” 

“Yeah, but I do know more about this thing than you do. And I also know that it knows where you live,” he snarks, eyes boring into Steve’s through the rearview mirror. He tilts his head and asks, “You still want to go back to your place?” 

Steve crosses his arms to try to appear unphased, but he can’t stop the fear from flooding into his eyes. 

He wants to go home, but _home_ home. Either his home in New York or the one with Ma, but he can’t have either. 

So, he uncrosses his arms and drops his tough facade as the terror of what happened tonight and every other night since he got here finally settles in. 

He chews on his lip, contemplating the best course of action. Go home where his greatest fear will be waiting to rip his limbs off his body and leave them scattered through the forest floor, or take a chance with a stranger.

Steve takes a deep, quivering breath and doesn’t look into the man’s eyes when he shakes his head. 

“Good,” the man grumbles. “We’re almost there.” 

***

The man takes him to a safe house about six miles deep in the woods. 

The window shutters are sealed closed. There’s no porch light. The outside is constructed with rotting wood. The roof is made of rusted tin. Overgrown trees swell over the porch and wrap around the front of the house. If it weren’t for the car’s yellow headlights, the house would be completely covered in the thick black blanket of night. 

It’s one of those houses Steve might have discovered as a young boy if he took a wrong turn on a hike through his backyard. Only Steve wasn’t allowed to go in his backyard much, except to take out the trash, so really it was like the stories he overheard his classmates telling. Exploring, going on adventures, taking long walks with their dads only to stumble across old rotting cabins that were sure to hold some horrors behind their walls or ghosts in their attics.

Steve remembers, distantly, a story his mother would tell him; about the man who brought the hounds to Canton. How he’d lure kids out to the woods so the hounds could eat them. How the man was damned to an eternity in the woods alone. 

But Ma didn’t even believe in this man, so why would Steve? 

He folds in on himself, curling his body deeper into the backseat of the car as it rolls to a stop and the engine cuts off. 

His knees are tucked beneath his chin. His eyes are wide behind his comically lopsided glasses and he doesn’t dare risk a blink. He looks like a scared little boy, roused abruptly from a nightmare and not yet having the courage to dart across the floor to his mother’s bed. 

The beast may be waiting under her mattress to claw his ankles and drag him down to eat him whole the second he steps off his bed. So he waits, curled up by his headrest. 

The man flicks off the headlights and pops open his door, swinging one foot out to step outside. But upon hearing no noise from his passenger, he twists over his shoulder to cast a glance towards him. 

What he finds is a trembling, scrawny man hugging his knees like a child. As they catch eyes, however, Steve’s eyes narrow and darken. 

“Better calm down,” the stranger says, raising an eyebrow while giving Steve a once over, “or your heart’s gonna kill you before that thing outside gets the chance.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either, but he makes a point in stiffening his limbs so he’s not shaking anymore and furrowing his brow so this man doesn’t think he’s a chicken. 

The man scoffs and turns forward. “You can leave whenever you want, kid, I’m not holding you hostage. But—” 

A sharp growl maybe ten feet away cuts him off. The leaves rumble with it and the car shakes like the engine’s been switched on again. 

The man gets out of the car and opens Steve’s door, fixing him with a pointed look before glancing toward the woods behind them, “—it might catch up to you.” 

Without needing further persuasion, Steve immediately scrambles out through the open door. He runs comically close to the man, practically gluing himself to this stranger’s back to use him as a makeshift shield as they climb up his porch. 

The man shoots an unimpressed look over his shoulder. 

Steve takes a stubborn step backward. 

A crucifix hangs above the door with Jesus’ bloody, dying form nailed to it. His mouth is opened in a soundless cry. On his head lies the crown of thorns. 

It’s the same type of crucifix Ma pinched pennies to afford, hanging them up on every entryway to keep them safe. 

“I think that’s supposed to go on the inside,” Steve comments, nodding his chin towards the dying messiah. 

The man doesn’t respond as he unlocks the door. His shoulders take up nearly the entire width of the doorframe. He pushes the door open and steps aside, putting his hand on Steve’s back to usher him inside. 

A thick line of rock salt lays across the entryway behind the door. Steve eyes it warily, raising an eyebrow at the haphazard design. 

At her worst, Ma laid salt against every entrance of the house. She never said why exactly, except that it was supposed to bring them the same comfort and protection as the dying Jesus figurines. 

“Don’t break my salt,” the man warns. 

His hand takes up the entirety of the small of Steve’s back. He nudges Steve again and again until he carefully lifts one foot to cross over inside. 

Instead of craning his neck to look up at the man, Steve chooses to monitor his feet in fear that he’ll kick the line and scatter salt all over the floor. 

“Salt’s gonna stop that thing from getting inside?” he asks after he makes it inside. 

“When it’s in that form, yeah,” the man answers from behind him. “Can’t stop it when it’s human, but it’s not like a person can do much damage.” 

Steve falters and turns back to the man.

“In ‘that’ form? What, you mean these things can change?” 

The man gives Steve a blank look. 

“It’s complicated,” he states, simply leaving it at that. 

He then stomps over the salt, slamming the door closed and latching the top lock, hooking one beneath it, twisting the deadbolt and wrapping a chain around the hand and a hook by the door hinge. 

“Little precautious?” Steve asks, rubbing at the back of his neck and taking a few steps backward. 

The man turns towards Steve with an unimpressed glare, but it quickly changes to a hiss as he grabs Steve’s wrists and pulls him away from a beartrap laying underneath the front window. 

“Jesus, can you be a little careful? Or is it completely against your wiring?” the man snaps before shouldering past Steve and stalking off deeper into the house. He scolds over his shoulder, “Can’t believe it hasn’t killed you yet. You’ve practically been sitting there waiting for it! I’m beginning to think you _like_ being bait!” 

Steve takes a tiny step back, careful not to step on any contraption this freak might have set up. He crosses his arms and glares at the man’s back.

“So those things are real?” Steve asks, finally able to process what the hell just happened in the last twenty minutes. He wants to be flabbergasted at discovering that his kooky mother was right all this time, but all he can feel is a tight knot in his stomach growing with the oh-so-familiar _I told you so_. 

“Unfortunately,” the man grumbles in return, turning on his heel abruptly to face Steve. “And you’re goddamn lucky it didn’t get you. Did you finally learn how to lock your windows?” 

“Christ, you sound like my mother,” Steve mumbles under his breath, before loudly asking, “What are you anyway? Do you hunt for these sorts of things? Are you a hunter?”

It feels ridiculous to ask out loud since he’s sure supernatural hunters only exist on T.V. He and Peggy went through a phase maybe three years back where they were obsessed with paranormal television shows. It used to help him sleep at night because he convinced himself that those monsters wouldn’t leave his television. 

Some good that did him. 

“No. I’m just a—” the man pauses for a moment, lulling his head from side to side as he searches for the right words, “—very unlucky man.” 

“Then how did you know where to find me?” Steve questions, balling his fists and taking a defensive step forward. “And why do you know all this stuff?” 

“You’re hungry,” the man states, no question or room for argument in his tone. “This can all wait until you get some food in you.” 

He quirks his chin and turns around, silently commanding Steve to follow him to the kitchen. 

“I’m really not,” Steve grumbles stubbornly, but the man acts as if he didn’t hear him. 

As they walk the small distance to the kitchen, Steve notes just how crowded and tiny this cabin is. 

There’s a cramped living room that quickly becomes a kitchen that has a single, rustic gas stove and an icebox. There’s a folding table that seems to be from the ‘70s with two wooden chairs that might be even older. 

Across from the living room and kitchen hybrid are two doors, which Steve assumes are a bedroom and bathroom, but the doors are closed so he has no way to confirm. 

There are contraptions and traps set up in every corner. Barbed wire hangs across the windows. Bottles of holy water are on every wooden surface. What looks like satanic symbols are drawn on every wall. 

On the tattered up couch lie piles of bibles and a single wooden stake with a rusty brown stain that could have been blood. A frayed quilt lies crumpled on the floor like the stranger slept on the couch and kicked it off in the middle of the night. 

There’s a scratched up coffee table that has bundles of sage and three guns of varying sizes lying on it. Shiny bullets that look like pure silver scatter between religious relics. There’s a machete knocked haphazardly onto the floor. 

There’s no television. No radio. No telephone. Even the lamps look ancient. 

It looks more like a bunker a paranoid man made in his basement during the Cold War than a house. 

“I’ve had this nightmare before,” Steve comments numbly, stumbling behind the man while taking in the cabin’s decor. 

The nightmares stopped scaring him after Ma died, almost like his body knew that he had no one there to comfort him. 

After that, the nightmares just made him nauseous. 

“If you think you’re gonna vomit, the bathroom’s that way,” the man states. 

He’s been very blasé about this whole thing and simply points at one of the doors. 

Steve strongly debates running toward it and emptying the insides of his queasy stomach, but he already threw up this morning. He also doesn’t want the headache and sore throat that comes with dry heaving. 

The man walks into the kitchen and opens the lid of the icebox. He pulls out a giant, yellowing Tupperware container filled to the brim with some sort of chili. 

When he pulls off the lid and begins dumping its contents into a large, dented pot, Steve is horrified to realize that it is, in fact, chili. 

Steve has to swallow to ease his churning stomach as heaps of greying beef and blood-red broth sloosh out of the container. 

He bites his tongue to refrain from stating that this is nice, but he really isn’t hungry. Based on his limited interactions with this man in the twenty minutes they’ve known each other, Steve doesn’t think he’d take too kindly to him turning down his food.

“I’m Bucky,” the man grunts, as he opens a random drawer and pulls out a ladle. 

Steve blinks, bringing his attention away from the sludge that he has to call dinner. 

“Huh?” 

The man turns to him, an eyebrow quirked and lips not frowning, but not quite smiling either. He’d almost look fond if there wasn’t still a sense of emptiness in his face. 

“My name,” the man states, eyeing Steve like he found him amusing, “is Bucky.” 

“Oh,” Steve said, cheeks heating and turning pink with embarrassment. He looks down at the counter and replies, “I’m Steve.” 

“Steve,” Bucky nods and flicks on the stove, which snaps a few times before a spark of flames shoots out from under the pot. 

Steve wants to say something snarky, something like _‘well, I would’ve got what you were saying the first time if you didn’t have some stupid name like Bucky’,_ just so Bucky doesn’t think he’s comfortable being here. 

But he doesn’t. 

He watches as Bucky stirs the chili with the chipped ladle. When he fears that watching the constant spin of the black handle will put him in a trance, Steve brings his eyes up to Bucky’s face. 

He’s mysterious with long, dark hair curtaining his face. His beard is fairly unkempt, but it’s not by any means long. His eyes are guarded and stern, but they’re so blue that they can’t help but be sharp. He has full lips, sharp bone structure. 

He’s pretty. Well, handsome, really. He has this rugged sort of beauty that Steve would be drooling over in any other situation. 

When Bucky shuffles, Steve immediately drops his eyes down to the pot of chili. 

He lets them linger on the man’s hand grasping the ladle. There are cuts on his knuckles that look like they’ve cycled through healing and opening throughout his lifetime. 

After a few minutes, Bucky turns off the stove and opens a nearby cabinet to grab two off-white plastic bowls. 

“I want you to know that you can leave,” Bucky reiterates, scooping chili into the bowls. “Whenever you want, Steve. You’re not a prisoner or anything.” 

He pauses when he turns around and hands Steve a bowl. 

“I didn’t mean to come off so rude, either. I was just worried it was gonna get you, is all, if we didn’t move fast. Be a shame if another person died here.” 

Steve cradles it carefully in his hands and follows Bucky’s lead to the card table. 

“I’ll stay,” Steve gives in reluctantly, but not without adding, “only for the night, though. I don’t need some stranger thinking he’s a hero for ‘protecting’ me, especially when I can deal with it just fine on my own.” 

“How’s that working out for you?” Bucky mutters sardonically. 

“Hasn’t killed me yet,” Steve bites back. 

Bucky ignores that and pulls out a chair for Steve on his way to his own chair, which he plops into unceremoniously. 

He’s awkwardly big in comparison to the tiny plastic table. His arms bulk around the sides of it and his legs are spread so they don’t press uncomfortably into the legs of the table. 

Steve sits down with a little more grace but still manages to have chili sloosh up from the sides of the bowl and splash on the table. He grimaces and looks around for a paper towel, but Bucky just waves him off as he continues to shovel food into his mouth. 

Steve apprehensively glances down at the bowl of sludge in front of him. The grey meat floats lifelessly in the sea of oily, red liquid. There are some stray beans that look ten years old and undercooked. 

He wrinkles his nose and looks back up at Bucky, who’s still eating away like there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the food. 

He looks expectantly at Steve, nodding toward his bowl as a silent command to start eating. 

Steve exhales through his nose and looks back down at the chili. His glasses slip down his nose, loose with the still broken piece, so he pushes them back up. 

He grabs the spoon and takes another deep breath as he prepares himself to consume some of the inedible sludge. 

He finally convinces himself to take a bite. He shudders as soon as it hits his tongue, the greasy and grainy texture masking any sort of flavor it might have. He forces himself to swallow without chewing much, and it slithers down his throat like undercooked rice. 

He pretends to clear his throat when he’s just trying to get any loose pieces to go down. 

He covers his mouth with his hand and finally swallows all of it. 

He glances up at Bucky, who seems placated that Steve has started to eat. 

Bucky returns to digging back into his own bowl, sloppily slurping spoonfuls while droplets of greasy red broth get stuck in his beard. 

Steve grimaces and lowers his spoon back down into his bowl. 

“Do you deal with these things often?” he asks, breaking the awkward silence and hoping to distract Bucky enough that he won’t notice if Steve doesn’t eat anymore. 

Bucky gives him an odd look. 

“Hellhounds?” Steve clarifies. 

“I don’t see _hellhounds_ often,” Bucky states between bites of food. “There are all kinds of things that live out in this forest. Goes up through Maine. The things I deal with the most are chupacabras, but those are out west. Also vampires. Dealt with a wendigo once. That was one nasty son of a bitch.” 

“So you _are_ a hunter,” Steve accuses. 

“I don’t _kill_ them, Steve,” Bucky reiterates, the words flicking off his tongue in a rather exasperated tone. “I just, you know,” he waves his hand, “scare them away.” 

“Is that what you’re planning to do with that hellhound? Scaring it away?” Steve asks, objection clear in his tone. 

Instead of answering, Bucky glances down at Steve’s still full bowl and points at it with his spoon before ordering, “Eat your food, Steve.”

He says Steve’s name a lot, almost like he hasn’t had the chance to say another name in years and is now overcompensating. 

Steve finds it off-putting. 

“Don’t change the subject,” Steve sneers, angrily pushing the bowl away from him. 

“You know, there are children starving somewhere that would be happy to eat that chili,” Bucky chides. 

Steve stubbornly decides to not tell Bucky that he knows what it’s like to go hungry. 

“It’s not going to hurt you, Steve. Not as long as you’re with me,” Bucky insists when Steve doesn’t eat. His face softens a hair as he twirls his spoon between his fingers. “And they’re not hounds, really. More like shapeshifters.” 

“Shapeshifters?” Steve presses, remembering Bucky’s comment from earlier. He crosses his arms on the table to lean forward. “You mean like werewolves?” 

“No—well, kinda yeah, but not _really_ ,” Bucky explains unhelpfully. “More like they can just switch from being a demon into a person. There’s not much else like it, which is good and bad. Good because they’re not as bad as demons. Bad because they’re worse than most other things. It’s not like they only change at a full moon, and they aren’t scared of no silver, either.” 

“Then what are they scared of?” 

“Nothing, Steve,” Bucky snaps, dropping his spoon back in his bowl, which lands with a frustrated plop. “That’s the whole point.” 

“Then what are you going to do?” Steve demands, slapping his hand against the table, making his chili spill over the edge of his bowl and leave big drops on the table. “I thought scaring it was your whole plan!” 

“That’s not my plan!” Bucky snarls but cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale. He wipes a hand down his face and takes a deeper, calmer breath before explaining. “Look, this whole thing is bizarre. Hellhounds don’t just kill people. They’re more like guard dogs. The way this one has been going at it, it’s like it learned what it’s supposed to do from a scary movie. So I don’t know exactly how I’m going to go after it _yet_. But until then, your safest bet is to stay here because it won’t break into my house.” 

“So those people who died in town? Dum Dum Dugan and the Fathsworth kid. You think that was this thing?” Steve asks, acidic panic burning its way up his throat as he realizes just how senseless this thing can be. 

And, if Sam’s theory is right, there could be more than one. 

“Seems like it,” Bucky grumbles, going back to his chili. “I can’t be too sure, though.” 

Steve blinks and shakes his head, trying to find a reason as to why this thing would go after harmless drunks and teenagers in the woods. He looks back at Bucky and asks, “Someone once said that they only come after you if you made a deal.” 

“You know who says that, Steve?” Bucky asks, holding a spoon of greasy chili in front of his mouth and raising an eyebrow. “Children.” 

“Then why is it here?” 

“Did _you_ make a deal?” Bucky asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

Steve’s face drops into a glare as he spits, “That’s not funny. And no, my life doesn’t suck that bad.”

“You live in the shitty outskirts of Canton. It does suck that bad.” Bucky snarks, and slurps down another greasy spoonful. More droplets fall into his beard and Steve really needs to stop looking at that or he’ll hurl. 

“Not enough to make a deal,” Steve snaps back and pushes his bowl away from him a little further. “My ma would murder me.” 

Bucky gives Steve a weird look at that, “Why’s that?” 

Steve doesn’t answer. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, fixes his glasses, and quickly changes the subject with, “Can you stop slurping so goddamn loud? I’m gonna vomit.” 

Bucky scoffs and slurps again. “Go ahead. I’ve scrubbed a lot worse out of my carpet.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, halfheartedly debating shoving his fingers down his throat just to make Bucky clean his puke so he’d regret making a joke. But considering that it will end up giving him a sore throat and a raw stomach for the next day, Steve decides against it. Plus, he doesn’t think he has anything in his stomach anyway. 

“You know, I haven’t met anyone else who believes in this stuff,” Steve comments, resigning from the argument in a very uncharacteristic way. 

Bucky takes the bait and follows Steve’s lead out of their tense conversation to shrug and add, “People are optimistic. They like to think that nothing real’s gonna hunt them after dark. Makes the parents not feel so bad when they let their kids play out late.” 

“Still, can’t help but wonder why you acted like not looking them in the eye was common knowledge,” Steve presses. At that, he pushes his glasses, which had fallen down once again, back up the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s knowledge to you,” Bucky claims, crossing his arms and giving Steve a blank look like he’s waiting for Steve to deny it. “I saw you lock your window three times. You know a lot more than you let on, Steve. At least, once you _remembered_ to lock your windows.” 

At that, Bucky pushes himself out of his seat and walks back into the kitchen. He grabs his and Steve’s bowls and goes to the kitchen to place them in the sink. 

Steve twists around, mouth falling open and ready to retaliate, but Bucky has already turned around. 

Steve huffs and pushes his glasses back up again. 

Bucky goes to the opposite side of the stove and pulls open a drawer, which causes a cacophony of sharp sounds as various items clink and rattle together. 

He rubs his beard, pushing around items in search of something in particular. 

When he finally finds it, he fishes out a small brown object. It’s the size and shape of an adult finger but has rusted metal bits on both ends. The brown wood is chipped and worn in the middle. Along the sides are long metal pieces that are squeezed snuggly together. 

It’s a pocket knife, which Steve only knows because he used to have his father’s when he was young. That was until his mother caught him sleeping with it under his pillow. She panicked, thinking that it might slice his throat in his sleep, and threw it away. 

He only ever did it because it was the closest he ever felt to his dead father, but he hadn’t thought about him since. 

Bucky places the pocket knife on the counter before reaching into the drawer once more. This time, he pulls out a cracked pair of tortoiseshell glasses. The frames are square but morphed and worn so terribly that they must be decades old. 

Steve pushes back in his seat and opens his mouth like he’s going to ask who the glasses belonged to. 

They can’t be Bucky’s unless he’s wearing contacts, and he doesn’t exactly seem like someone who even knows what contacts are. 

Steve’s plenty sure that Bucky’s probably been a recluse for some time, and wouldn’t want to go to an optometrist to purchase new contacts every year. 

Steve sure as hell doesn’t want to, which is why he’s stuck with his broken glasses. 

But still, there is something unsettling about the way Bucky kept a drawer of knick-knacks. It’s like a collection of forbidden treasures that maybe he found or stole or—

_Oh my God,_ Steve suddenly thinks, pushing back in his seat more to create a bigger distance between him and Bucky. _What if these are things he stole from a dead body?_

Steve used to watch crime documentaries and remembers something about serial killers keeping random objects from their victims, almost as little trophies. 

Bucky picks the pocket knife back up and presses a button on the side.

Steve holds his breath, expecting a little knife to pop out. 

It doesn’t. A miniature screwdriver head pops out from the side instead. 

Steve doesn’t exhale, but his heart calms a bit as he carefully observes Bucky’s next move. 

Bucky uses the screwdriver to take out a screw in the glasses frames. It pops out after only a few turns. Bucky catches it effortlessly in his left hand. 

He walks back over to Steve and holds out his hand expectantly. 

Steve exhales, shoulders slumping as he glares up at Bucky for unknowingly giving him a heart attack. 

He takes the hint and begrudgingly takes his broken glasses off of his face and presses them into Bucky’s open palm, on top of the tiny screw. 

It only takes Bucky a few seconds to fix the broken frame, which makes Steve feel like a moron for wearing them broken these past few days. Granted, it’s not like he didn’t try to fix them. 

He kind of ran into a goddamn demon for his efforts. 

But still, he hates feeling useless. And watching Bucky fix his stupid glasses so he didn’t have to watch them slip down all night makes him feel just that. 

“Here,” Bucky grunts, handing Steve the glasses back. 

“Thanks,” Steve grumbles back, tempted to snark about how he was just fine with them how they were. But when he slides them onto his face and feels the arms sit snugly behind his ears and stay put on his nose, he can’t help but feel the tiniest bit appreciative. 

“Whose glasses were those?” Steve asks as he moves his head to check the glasses’ stability. 

They don’t slide down his nose anymore. He settles back in his seat, placated. 

Bucky shrugs as he moves toward a window. He uses one finger and pulls back the curtain just a hair to peer outside like he just heard something Steve hadn’t. 

“Found ‘em.” 

“And the pocket knife?” 

Bucky shrugs again, stiffer this time. He doesn’t turn away from the window, but Steve can still see his tense jaw click. “Found it, too.” 

Steve raises a dubious eyebrow and crosses his arms. “So you just happen upon things like that in the forest?” 

_Just like you just find monsters and people living alone while a giant wolf from hell sits outside waiting to eat them alive._

“You can find a lot of things in the forest,” Bucky responds, but his tone is distracted. He peels back the curtain a little bit more as his face steels over. 

Silence falls between them, the tense kind. Steve’s too worried to even move, but he wants to ask what Bucky’s so worked up over. 

His question is answered when a phlegmy growl stabs through the silence and churns Steve’s stomach. 

It’s louder than the ones from before, practically sounding like it’s in the cabin. 

Bucky doesn’t even flinch, but he does curl his lip like he’s going to growl back.

But he doesn’t make a sound, and he doesn’t move until it stops. 

When it does stop, it’s quick like it never even happened. 

Bucky leans back a little and moves his head like he’s tracking something darting through the trees. 

“I’ll drive you back in the morning,” Bucky says, finally breaking the silence. He drops the curtain so it falls back into place. He exhales quietly, and Steve sees how his shoulders drop. 

“Make sure you can pack everything and I’ll drive you to the bus station outside of town,” Bucky states like it’s a decided thing between the two of them

“I can’t,” Steve says, his bugged eyes still staring cautiously at the window. “I need to sell my house.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes and turns back to Steve. His body is stiff, and yet he crosses his arms over his chest to appear casual. He quirks his chin at Steve and asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re stubborn?” 

Steve’s lips quirk up into an almost-smile as he jokes, “Some might’ve mentioned it.” 

It’s coming on midnight when fatigue quickly creeps up on Steve. He’s sitting on the couch, a frayed quilt wrapped around his shoulders as he fights sleep away as long as he can. 

“Drink this,” Bucky had said some time ago, handing Steve a steaming cup of tea. There hadn’t been a tea bag, but instead there were herbs floating freely throughout the hot water. 

Steve had grimaced but accepted it anyway. 

“What is it?” he had grumbled, curling his lip at the unappealing drink. 

“Tea,” Bucky had said like it was obvious. He’d held up his own mug to his lips and drank it hot. 

And Steve, despite his better judgment, had felt it wasn’t worth another argument. He’d chugged the tea as soon as it was cool enough that it wouldn’t burn his tongue. 

He’d felt a warm calmness wash over him before long. It had felt like a warm hug. 

Steve had welcomed the feeling with open arms, until he’d remembered that he needed to stay awake as long as he could. 

Bucky had given him the quilt that was lying on the floor, only shaking it out a bit before dropping it over Steve’s shoulders. It had landed over Steve’s head and covered his eyes. 

Steve had turned his covered head to Bucky and grumbled back a sarcastic thanks, but Bucky hadn’t picked up on his dry tone and responded with a distracted ‘you’re welcome’ as he searched around the cabin for an extra pillow. 

He’d found one, and that had been nearly an hour ago. 

Since then, Steve has tried his damn hardest not to crash on the couch. But now he can barely keep his eyes open. 

His eyelids feel like they’re filled with cement, heavy and scratchy against his corneas. 

Bucky’s not much of a conversationalist when there’s nothing to argue about, so they mostly just sit there. There’s not much to keep him awake. 

“What the hell did you give me?” Steve slurs and lets himself fall against the couch. 

“It’s tea,” Bucky reiterates from his spot on the floor right beside the couch, holding his own cup that he refilled. He set up his own space there with a threadbare blanket and lumpy pillow, too worried about letting Steve sleep in the living room alone when that thing might still be right outside the front door. “It’s supposed to be calming. Helps me sleep so I thought it might help you. Sorry. Didn’t realize you’d be so sensitive to it.” 

Steve hums in response as that’s about all he has energy for right now. 

“I haven’t slept in a couple of days,” Steve comments. 

“That could have something to do with it,” Bucky hums in response and slurps from his mug.

Silence falls between them, a soft spell of it. Not tense like the silent moments before, but that could be because Steve’s half-asleep and is unable to pick up on the awkwardness of it. 

Steve can feel sleep fall over him like a soft blanket and almost lets it cover him completely until he remembers something. 

His eyes snap open and he springs back up, startling Bucky and causing him to spill his hot tea on his lap. 

“Shit!” Bucky exclaims, wiping hot liquid off his pants. 

“I forgot Madame Liberty!” Steve shouts. 

Bucky blinks uselessly for a moment, before finally sputtering, “Madame who?” 

“My cat!” Steve snaps back, as much as he can through his drowsy state. “I forgot my fucking cat!” 

Bucky blinks again, forehead scrunching when he states, “The hound’s not after your cat.” 

“I forgot her food,” Steve claims in a panic. He continues, quieter and to himself, “I told Peggy to keep her. She’s barely even my cat. Piece of shit barely likes me.” 

His words become more slurred and his eyes more droopy the longer he mutters. 

Bucky watches him apprehensively before calmly placing his mug on the coffee table. 

“It’s fine, Steve,” Bucky mutters unsurely. He gently puts his palm on Steve’s forehead and nudges him back down, which Steve does without a fuss since his exhaustion has inhibited his reaction skills. 

Steve doesn’t have the energy to argue because it’s then that his fatigue takes over and Steve can’t keep his eyes open anymore. He thunks his head against the pillow and allows sleep to take him. 

However, just before it does, a howl sounds from outside, weeping through the walls as the pitiful cry rings through the night. 

“Shit,” Bucky curses from his spot on the ground. He grips the coffee table in a bone-white grip, stares at the wall the hound stands behind, and hisses, “what the hell’d you say that for?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's finally here! So who do we think the hellhounds going to be....????
> 
> See you tomorrow for chapter 8!


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains accident self-harm in the very first section.

When Ma passed, it took a whole day for the owner of the local funeral home to take her dead body away. 

It was summer. They didn’t have air conditioning. The windows in Ma’s room were shut. 

Steve was hyperventilating in the hallway, knees bent and face tucked between them as he tried to breathe because his inhaler wasn’t helping him. 

He couldn’t go back in there, wouldn’t. The windows stayed shut because Steve wasn’t brave enough to run in and open them. 

The sweltering heat was so bad, trapped, and stuffy inside Ma’s room. 

Steve couldn’t move, frozen on the floor right outside her door. 

The smell started leaking out of the room the next morning, producing a thick stench that sweltered around him like a swarm of flies. 

It reminded him of a time he found an old McDonald’s take out bag on the side of the road on his way back from school. 

He was eight, maybe nine, and hungry. Ma wasn’t getting off work until late and Steve didn’t feel like cooking dinner himself. 

He picked up the bag and opened it, only to be smacked with the overwhelming stench of rotting hamburger meat which made him gag, drop the bag, and run home with tears in his eyes.

But the smell from Ma’s room was worse, and it stayed in his nostrils for months. 

Even when he moved into Peggy’s apartment in the city, the smell wouldn’t leave him. 

When Steve would hear Peggy leave for work in the early morning, he would kick off his bedsheets and run to the shower to scrub the smell away. He’d be in there for nearly an hour, adding more and more body wash to his loofa to get the smell away. 

His raw skin would burn and he’d wash and wash until parts of his arms would bleed. 

“I can’t get it off, Ma,” Steve would sob. Its wet sound would blend with the sharp water spray from the showerhead. “I can’t get the smell off.” 

Steve wanted her to wrap him in a towel and just say that it was alright, the smell was gone, it was all in his head. 

But the smell was still there. 

He would rub the loofah all over his body, down his arms and legs as he scrubbed his skin pink. 

The smell would hang above the fruity scent of his body wash. It was ripe and hot and, God, it  _ burned _ . It smelt like an infected cut, rotting carnage stuck between a canine’s teeth, a mysterious bag in a dumpster down an alleyway. 

“It’s not leaving, Ma,” Steve wept, dropping the loofah as he fell to his knees on the wet shower floor. 

But Ma didn’t answer, and the smell never left him. 

Steve wakes up to his nose pressed against a musty, rough surface. His stiff lungs expand with an inhale of stale air and dust. 

His eyes blink wide open and his vision is flooded with a plaid design. He pushes his face away from the couch cushion and rubs at his cheek that’s now covered with tiny square pressure marks. 

Phlegmy snores sound from beneath him. 

Steve pushes up on his forearm and peers over the side of the couch. 

Bucky is sound asleep on the floor right beside it. He’s on his back with his right arm tossed over his face while his left is tucked beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. His mouth hangs open as his snores rumble through the house once more. 

Yesterday’s events suddenly replay in Steve’s mind, whirring through like a VHS tape on fast forward. Mr. Phillips, those growls, trapped in the back of Bucky’s car, that god awful smell. 

_ Shit. _

It occurs to Steve that his ma was never crazy, and he is officially fucked. 

It’s cold in the cabin, and Steve almost can’t breathe. He silently moves to pull his inhaler out of his pocket. He shakes it as quietly as he can before putting it to his mouth and pressing the button. He winces a bit at the light hiss when the medicine puffs into his mouth, but Bucky doesn’t move, so Steve just takes his deep breaths and repeats the process until his breathing is in check. 

When it is, he shucks the inhaler back into his pocket and sits up quietly, careful of the moaning springs inside the couch. They squeak a little bit and he winces, glancing over at Bucky, who only snuffles and rolls over onto his stomach before his snores pick up again. 

Steve knows he has to leave, both the cabin and the town. He needs to get his car back from Mr. Phillip’s parking lot, rush back to his place and pack anything he needs, including his cat, before getting the hell out of Canton. 

The only problem currently is getting out of the cabin without waking up Bucky. 

Steve risks another quick glance at Bucky, who’s still snoring away on his belly without any indication that he’ll wake up soon. 

Steve goes as stiff as a board as he reaches over to the coffee table to quickly swipe his glasses, which he doesn’t remember taking off last night. He puts them on and is relieved when the world becomes clear again. 

Steve tensely puts his feet on the ground, stretching them as far away from Bucky as humanly possibly. It gives him about six inches to work with, but it’s six inches he’ll take.

He puts his palms by his knees and pushes up, carefully maintaining his balance as he stands and quickly hops over Bucky’s legs while narrowly avoiding whacking his shins against the coffee table. 

By the grace of God, he does it successfully, only needing to hold his hands out to keep his balance. 

Then, he quietly tiptoes toward the door, careful not to step on any bear traps or bump into any stray weapons or bibles lying around. 

When he makes it to the door, he quickly unlatches the various locks along the door hinge before finally getting them all undone. 

He holds his breath as he opens the door, wincing as it squeaks. He sharply turns to Bucky, who’s still snoring on his stomach as if nothing happened. 

Steve turns back around and carefully steps over the salt. He closes the door behind him and exhales the tension out of his body. 

When he finally steps outside, he’s startled by the crisp, chill air that pinches his skin. He shivers, blowing air into his hands before rubbing them against his forearms. All he has is his threadbare hoodie, which is normally more than enough for the summer, but the trees seem to lock in cold air. 

Without delaying his return much longer, given the creatures, hellhounds aside, that could be lingering behind the trees, he begins his trek down the stairs and towards Bucky’s car. 

Since it was dark when they drove in and Steve has no fucking clue where the hell in Canton they are, he thanks the soft forest ground for leaving Bucky’s tire tracks from last night. 

Pulling his inhaler out of his pocket and grasping it in his hand, Steve takes a deep inhale. 

“Alright, Rogers. Don’t chicken shit this,” he tells himself before taking off down the path and praying he’ll make it out of the woods without running into any unwanted visitors. 

He stumbles out of the woods nearly an hour later, at the crossroads of Greenwood and Fallbrook. 

Greenwood once turned into the woods and was a common road for deer hunters to take when going out in the firearm season. It shut down in the late ‘80s after the town’s deacon fatally crashed into a tree late at night. Now, Greenwood is overrun with foliage. 

Steve huffs, wiping some dirt off his face and hunching over. He puts his hands on his knees to catch his breath. 

His clothes are filthy, covered in mud and grass stains from tripping over tree roots one too many times. 

The palms of his hands have shallow scrapes that sting like a bitch and there’s dirt so caked into his hair that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to scrub it out with just one wash. His glasses are smudged to shit, his nail beds are nearly black with dirt, and he can feel dust crusted around his nose. 

He wants now more than anything to go home, take a hot shower, pack up all his stuff and get the hell out of Canton, but he needs his goddamn car to do that. 

Since the oh-so-heroic Bucky snatched him from the parking lot last night, Steve will need to stop by Phillip’s grocery store to get it. 

He begrudgingly starts his trek down the pale grey asphalt road, despite his aching feet begging him to sit down and take a break. 

He debates for a moment, sitting at the side of the road and holding a thumb up to maybe catch a bored truck driver willing to give him a ride. 

But not even five minutes into his journey, a rusty VW bug zooms by with three high school students laughing so loud it can be heard over the ancient engine. 

“Hey, Doggy!” the driver yells and throws a half-full can of Pepsi out of the window. 

Steve barely has time to process that something’s hurling toward his head before he clumsily ducks out of the way, tearing up the knees of his jeans in the process. Jagged pieces of sharp asphalt dig into his palms and shins. 

The triad’s cackles grow before they zoom past and disappear down the road. 

Steve huffs and pushes himself back up, brushing off the dirt from his knees with his filthy hands. 

The Pepsi can lays a few yards away, the rest of the drink bubbling out of its opening. Its reddish-brown color looks like old blood as it pools on the asphalt. 

Steve growls and stalks toward it, fist balled up at his sides. 

The teens grinning faces, ruddy cheeks, and windblown hair flood his mind. Those grinning teeth become sharp fangs dripping beet red blood and their cheerful eyes become stern grey ones. 

Steve brings his leg back and kicks the lifeless soda can as hard as he can manage and watches it fly about fifteen feet before landing softly in the dirt ground of the woods. 

The tight knot of anger in his stomach loosens a hair. His tense shoulders go limp and his scowl disappears. 

He rolls his eyes at his own childish behavior, before turning and starting up the road once more, knowing that there is no way to get to the store unless it's on foot. 

By the time Steve makes it to the store, the sun’s higher up in the sky and beating down on the back of his neck. Anywhere his clothes don’t cover, his Irish pale skin is burnt into a bright red, scaly crisp. 

Heat rises off the asphalt in hazy lines and the smell of burnt rubber and old gas suffocates him. 

He puts the hood of his threadbare jacket over his head, hoping that will keep the sun away from his skin, but he’s about an hour too late. 

Once his feet hit the furthest area of the parking lot outside of Phillips’ store, he stutters to a stop. 

The entire perimeter of the store, from about twenty yards out, is sectioned off with bright yellow caution tape. Every cop in town stands around the store. Some lean on their patrol cars just outside of the caution tape. Their sirens are turned off, but the red and blue lights strobe dimly through the midday sunlight. 

There’s a trail of blood that some officers are observing and making notes off. It goes from the entrance to behind the shop toward the woods, but from where Steve is standing, he can’t see where it ends. 

He doesn’t notice he’s been walking forward, too horrified by the scene in front of him to comprehend any movement he’s been making. Especially considering his fucking car has been in the parking lot all night. 

Just as Steve’s about to step right through the caution tape, he’s choked by someone grabbing a hold of his shirt collar and yanking him backward. 

Steve’s back hits against someone’s chest and he’s immediately overcome with a terrible smell, like vinegar or week-old trash. He holds his breath to keep from gagging and setting the grumpy cop off, but he takes a slight step forward to distance himself from the smell. 

“Are you blind, kid?” a gruff voice snaps. “Can’t you see this is a crime scene?” 

Steve twists around and stammers, “I had some—”

The word “information” gets caught on his tongue, as does any story having to do with him being here last night. 

The man is wearing a fancy suit and black sunglasses that completely hide his eyes. His lips are set downward and there’s a deep wrinkle between his brows. 

But what catches Steve’s eye is the gaudy necklace hanging between the man’s collar bones. The giant blue eye pendant stares blankly into his soul. 

The memory of the mysterious couple in Sam’s bar floods back to Steve’s mind. The eye pendants, the girl with red hair, and the man who wore his sunglasses inside. 

The man’s nose wrinkles as he prompts, “‘You had some’ what?” 

“Agent Barton!” a cop with a mustache hiding his upper lip calls from the entrance of the store. He brings one hand away from his holster and gestures to Steve. “Don’t bother talking to that one. He’s just gonna fill your head with nonsense.” 

Steve’s about to yell something smart back, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice. 

“Rogers!” a boisterous yell comes from the end of the blood trail. 

Steve turns his head toward the voice and sees Brock rounding the store and giving him a Cheshire grin. 

He rushes through the crime scene and ducks under the caution tape before harshly wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulders. 

Steve grunts and tries to weasel out of Brock’s hold, but Brock tightens his grip. 

“Fancy seeing you here!” Brock exclaims through the gritted teeth of his grin. He turns to the agent and says, “Man, me and Rogers go way back, don’t we pal?” 

He shakes Steve, who rocks back and forth like a limp noodle. 

Brock looks back to Agent Barton and says, “And we thought  _ you  _ were weird. Wait until we tell you about this one.” 

Even with the obnoxious interruption, Steve can’t take his eyes away from the pendant staring back at him. 

Agent Barton eyes Steve carefully. He tucks his pedant almost self-consciously into his shirt as he states, “He said he had some information.” 

“Did he?” Brock asks, theatrically pressing his hand against his agape mouth. “What kind of information, Rogers? You think a hellhound did this?” 

“No,” Steve stammers, heart hammering as he breaks out of Brock’s grip without taking his eyes away from Agent Barton.

Agent Barton quirks his head, and the corners of his lips turn down slightly like he’s trying to figure Steve out. 

Steve can feel Barton’s eyes staring holes into his own, even though they’re blocked behind black sunglasses. 

“Sorry for bothering you,” Steve gulps, before turning on his heel and rushing to his car.

“I think that kid’s hiding something,” Agent Barton comments as he watches Steve speed walk away from them.

Another cop nearby scoffs and states loud enough for Steve to hear, “That’s just how the Rogers always act.” 

Brock turns and looks at the agent. He eyes him up and down, quirking his chin as he asks, “Hey, new guy. Anyone tell you about the Doggy Rogers?” 

Agent Barton’s stern face eases as his lips curl into a smile. 

“Can’t say they have,” he states, his smile growing as he steps closer to them. “Why don’t you enlighten me?” 

Steve races to his house and makes it there in less than five minutes. His brakes screech as he slams on them and harshly puts the car in park. 

Lorraine Rollins watches in horror from her dingy front porch as a frantic Steve scrambles out of his car. 

“Get the cat. Pack my bags. Lock the door. Get the cat. Pack my bags. Lock the door,” Steve mutters to himself as he rushes to his front door. 

Lorraine almost shatters her glass of lemonade in her fist from how tightly she’s clutching it. 

Her two young children play innocently in their dead front lawn, but she quickly rushes to them and herds them inside before Steve can see them out there. 

He had, of course, because those kids don’t seem to know how to play without screaming, but he doesn’t care about them right now. All he cares about is getting the hell out of Canton. 

“Fuck,” he gasps as the keys slip from his sweaty palms and clank against the creaky wooden porch. He huffs, on the brink of hyperventilating, as he scoops them off the ground, shoves them into the keyhole, and unlocks the door. 

Madame Liberty yowls from the couch, panicked and hungry as Steve stumbles inside. 

He hurries to her and lifts her up, only causing her to freak out more, but it doesn’t last long because he quickly finds her carrier and shoves her inside. 

She protests and scratches him on her way inside. 

He hisses and pulls back, slamming the grated door shut and locking it. 

As he turns to examine the jagged scratches on his arm, something catches his eye. 

A window in his kitchen, one he didn’t think he unlocked, is wide open. Ma’s faded yellow curtains flap as a stiff wind pushes them aside. 

There are no creaking floorboards, open cupboards, or turned over dressers. But, there are five jagged lines that run from the bottom of the windowpane, down the wall to the floor. It’s taunting almost, the way the lines sit there like the creature broke in simply to poke fun at Steve and leave without touching anything. 

“Huh,” Steve says, tilting his head at the window, as he decides that he should probably hold off on listing. 

It’s past noon by the time Steve makes it to The Falcon’s Beak, and it's already flooding with the lunchtime rush. 

He should be halfway to the city by now, but he knows that if he leaves without warning Sam of what’s happening, he’d never be able to sleep again. 

He pulls into the parking lot and parks over the line, taking up two spots before he puts on his brakes and cracks the windows down so Madame Liberty doesn’t get heatstroke. 

She’s not purring or making any noise, really, so he glances back to make sure she’s still alive. 

Her slanted green eyes stare back at him as she slowly blinks to let Steve know just how done with his shit she is. 

_ “Sorry,”  _ he mouths with a grimace before pushing open his door and hopping out of his car. He locks the door manually and shakes each of the doors’ handles three times just to make sure it’s locked. 

Once he’s sure, he sends another apologetic look to Madame Liberty, who’s taken to calmly grooming herself, before Steve heads toward the bar. 

He shoves open the door and is immediately bombarded with the smell of fresh cigarettes and greasy food. Loud music reverberates off the walls, meshing in with the buzz of conversation coming from packed tables. 

“Fucking Canton,” Steve wheezes as he pulls out his inhaler once again. 

So much for coming here to clear up his asthma. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, but pops off the cap and shakes it anyway. 

After he finishes breathing in his medicine, he scans the bar to search for Sam. 

There are two waitresses on shift, both middle-aged women who greyed too fast and have worked here since Sam’s parents opened it. One’s hair is half out of her bun and the other has more mascara under her eyes than on her lashes. 

Steve finally spots Sam behind the bar counter, quickly pouring and mixing drinks for awaiting customers as he chats with Riley behind the rectangle kitchen window. He sends smiles over his shoulder at him and Riley smiles back as he rushes around the kitchen to prepare meals. 

Steve rushes up to the bar, plastering on a fake smile as he waves at Riley first and greets, “Hey, Riley.” 

Riley’s smile drops. 

Sam jolts and turns to Steve in surprise. 

“Steve,” Riley grumbles. 

“I’m sorry I forgot your name,” Steve rushes in quickly before this can get worse. “It was a bad day. It’s not like me. And it was, you know,” Steve rubs at the back of his neck, “rude.” 

Riley’s face quickly perks up at that and his cheesy smile is back on his face before he says, “Oh, well, that’s okay, Steve. You want anything? We just got sweet potato fries in.” 

“I’m good,” Steve waves off with a tight smile. Then he turns to Sam to say, “I need to—”

“Talk to me?” Sam finishes, putting a bottle down and grabbing the counter to rest his weight against. “You’re getting predictable, Rogers.” 

Steve huffs a quick and humorless laugh before leaning against the counter, bringing his face close to Sam’s while scanning the crowded bar. He drops his voice low and says, “Look, I have to make this fast. My cat’s in the car and something insane happened last night, like fucking next level, ‘you-won’t-believe-me, in-fucking-sane’—”

“Are you good?” Sam interrupts, eyeing Steve carefully. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, man.” 

“I’m fine,” Steve bites, but he’s still frantically looking around the bar, terrified of seeing Agent Barton or smelling his god awful body odor. “I need you to listen to me.” 

“You sure? You look pale,” Sam states, reaching forward to press the back of his hand against Steve’s forehead. 

“I’m always pale,” Steve huffs and bats Sam’s hand away, but as he does it, he can feel the tacky, cold feeling of sweat all over his body. He feels nauseous, too, like he smelt expired milk or rode in the back of his ma’s rocky minivan for too long. 

“Alright,” Sam sighs, holding his hands up before reaching one into his back pocket and taking out his phone. “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, and I know you’re not going to want to take this, but I really think you should. Because I have a feeling something’s been going on in that house of yours.”

Then suddenly, like a viper on a mouse, Sam’s hand reaches over the counter and into Steve’s jacket pocket. 

“Hey!” Steve yelps, jolting back in surprise, but Sam still manages to snatch his phone. 

“Sam!” he tries to protest, but Sam cuts him off by simply raising a finger. 

Sam scrolls through his own phone before smiling and pressing something. He then focuses on Steve’s phone and clicks around before he starts typing something. 

Steve watches impatiently, leaning across the bar counter with his arm outstretched, just out of reach of Sam’s hand. 

Finally, Sam smiles and locks his phone. He shucks it back into his pocket and tosses Steve’s phone to him. 

Steve squeaks, fumbling the catch but getting it before it falls and shatters on the floor. He huffs, shooting Sam a glare, before looking at his phone. 

It’s open to the address book on a new contact’s information page. 

Steve looks at the new contact and sees  _ ‘Brock Rumlow (high school)’  _ as the ID. 

Steve scoffs and puts his phone down. He crosses his arms on the counter and hisses, “I’m not calling Brock, Sam. He’d do shit to help me.” 

“He’s the best cop we got,” Sam defends, almost in a chastising tone like Steve’s the one being ridiculous.

“I doubt that,” Steve quips back. 

Sam tilts back and crosses his arms. “He’s been untouchable since he got his job. You remember that guy in the old pick up that used to flash girls around the college in Morley?” 

“Yeah?” Steve snaps, picking his phone back up and glaring at the pictureless contact. 

“He caught him.”

“He did?” Steve asks dubiously, glancing up at Sam. “But no one caught him. That’s the whole point. He was the uncatchable flasher.” 

Sam shrugs. “Brock caught him.” 

“No kidding,” Steve mumbles to himself, mildly impressed before shaking his head to keep that feeling away. He swallows, still feeling nauseated, and puts his phone back into his pocket. 

He realizes then that there’s an odd smell that begins to encroach on them. It starts off distant, like maybe the store next door has some plumbing problems. But then it becomes overwhelming, almost as if it’s leaking through Sam’s vents or coming from behind the counter. 

It’s pungent and sour, just like Agent Barton’s body odor. 

“Hey fellas,” a voice greets behind them. It’s a woman’s voice, but a husky one. It sounds like she had smoked when she was younger but quit soon after she started. 

Sam’s eyes widen as he looks at the woman leaning on the counter beside Steve. He looks over at Steve in confusion before looking back at her. 

Steve rolls his eyes and turns around in his stool, ready to snap at some asshole who even thinks about saying the words ‘Doggy Rogers’ because he’s really not in the mood. 

He stops when he’s smacked by the overwhelming sour smell of ripe trash and the sight of a pretty face framed by fiery red hair. 

The woman smirks and tilts her head, elongating her neck to show off the gaudy necklace under the dim bar lighting. 

The eye pedant stares at Steve, watching his every move, calculating every twitch. 

Steve swallows before turning back toward the counter. He stares intently at it, like somewhere in the gleaming, polished finish he’ll find a way to disappear from this bar and out of town while getting Sam out of there, too. 

Her smirk grows before she turns to Sam and asks, “Either of you hear what happened at the grocery store last night?” 

“Uh, no?” Sam responds, glancing suspiciously at Steve’s suddenly green face. He looks back at the woman and asks, “Did someone rob them again? ‘Cause I told Mr. Phillips that those old security cameras weren’t gonna do them any good if everyone knows they can’t record anymore.” 

Her smirk drops as she turns to Steve and asks, “How about you, Doggy?” 

Sam’s expression turns stern as he raises a finger and says, “Hey, look, ma’am—”

“I’m just kidding!” the lady laughs off, flicking her hair away from her face as she smiles at Sam over her shoulder. “I heard a couple of people saying it. I thought it was a joke.” 

“Well, it’s not funny,” Sam bites back. 

Steve doesn’t say anything. He can feel her staring at him as he continues to stare at the countertop, watching the old condensation rings left by lazy bar-goers shrink. 

His stomach twists and flips over and over again and he worries that he’ll spew the two bites of Bucky’s chili all over the counter. 

He swallows again, just to make sure he doesn’t vomit, as he clenches his sweaty hands into fists. 

“Steve? Did you know anything about it?” the woman prods, ducking down to try and catch his eyes, but to no avail. 

He still doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t look up until she finally turns away. 

She looks at Sam and warns, “Might want to get that cat away from your friend’s tongue, Sam Wilson.” 

Sam’s forehead crumbles as he turns to Steve to give him a bewildered look.

“Okay?” he responds lamely. 

Her smile turns to syrup sweetness as she cocks her head and says, “Well, if you boys do hear anything, my name’s Natasha. I’m sure you’ll know where to find me.” 

With that, she gives them both a wave, rolling each of her curled fingers on her right hand before stepping away from the counter. 

Sam waves stiffly and gives a tight smile that doesn’t come close to meeting his eyes. 

As soon as she walks out of the bar, he drops his hand and smile before he mutters under his breath, “Jesus, that chick gives me a whole new kind of bad feeling. I told you they were bad news. Wonder where her boyfriend is.” 

He points to Steve to reiterate, “This is why I hate working at a bar. I deal with way too many people and all of them make me uneasy. It’s above my pay grade. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll sell it and move into the woods where I’ll only have to see these people on grocery runs.” 

He takes out a sanitizer rag from behind the counter and starts wiping down the spot Steve’s been staring at. Steve numbly lifts his hands out of the way and drops them into his lap. 

“It was them,” Steve whispers to himself. “It had to have been them.” 

But there was only one last night, right? Unless it was one at the store and a different one at Bucky’s cabin. And if that’s the case, was there more than one that was tormenting him at his house? And if they were, why? He’d never met them before, and for all they knew, he was new to town. 

But, God, all they had to do was talk to one person in Canton and they’d know Steve would be the easiest target by far. 

_ “You hear the young Doggy Rogers was found torn to bits in his dead mother’s house? Ain’t that ironic?”  _

Sam doesn’t hear him over the loud commotion of the bar, so he keeps going with, “And could you smell her, man? I don’t want to sound like an ass, but Jesus, she stank. You know, if she talked any longer,  _ I  _ would’ve called Brock.” 

“I have to go,” Steve sputters, pushing away from the counter and rushing out to the exit. 

“Steve!” Sam calls, tone frustrated, and concerned. 

But Steve doesn’t respond as he pushes open the door and runs to his car. 

He has to put a stop to all this, and there’s only one person he knows who can help him do that, and that person sure as hell isn’t in the city. 


	10. Chapter Nine

It takes about an hour to find the crossroads that lead back to Bucky’s cabin. There’s still sunlight, which helps, but it’s fading away as fast as late afternoon approaches. 

Steve rolls up the dirt road and parks his car right next to Bucky’s beat-up Chevy. It’s then that Steve notices that Bucky doesn’t have any license plates, but the possibility of Bucky stealing a car is the least of his worries. 

After Steve puts the car in park, he honks his car’s horn obnoxiously, pressing down for long periods of time until he’s sure Bucky’s heard him. 

He slumps back in his seat and crosses his arms, tapping his foot impatiently against the crumb-covered carpet of the car as he waits for Bucky to come out of the cabin.

He’s gnawing at his nails before he even processes that he put his hand in his mouth. 

He has groceries in the trunk that he bought in Morley because he didn’t think he’d be able to stomach another round of Bucky’s cooking. Even though he mostly bought non-perishables, he worries about them going bad during the few minutes he needs to wait in his car because there’s no way he’s just going to hop out without knowing Bucky is here first. 

But there’s milk in the trunk, and milk’s expensive and it took him twenty minutes to get here so who knows if it's even good anymore. 

Steve groans and honks his horn again. 

Madame Liberty hisses from her spot in the back seat. 

Bucky suddenly appears from behind the overgrown bush that has taken over his porch. His hair is disheveled and there’s dirt smeared across his cheekbones. He’s clutching an armful of freshly chopped firewood. 

He’s wearing a long-sleeved henley and jeans even though the temperature is nearing the mid-eighties. 

He quirks his head and steps closer as Steve hops out of his car. 

“You’re back,” Bucky states, tone deadpan like he’s been expecting him. 

“Yup,” Steve bites as he pulls Madame Liberty’s carrier out of the back seat and holds her under his arm. He takes his duffle and slings it over his other shoulder. 

He brushes past Bucky to get to the cabin and states, “There’s groceries in the trunk.”

Bucky doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he drops his firewood and points toward the carrier. 

“What is that?” he spits. 

“A cat.” 

“A fucking  _ what _ ?” 

“A  _ cat _ ,” Steve snaps, turning sharply on his heel. He almost collides into Bucky’s chest, who had closed the distance between them silently. 

Steve huffs and takes a step back, readjusting the carrier before stating, “Can you please get the groceries out of my trunk? My hands are full.” 

He turns back around and climbs up the porch, calling over his shoulder, “I’m assuming your door’s unlocked.” 

Bucky grumbles something inaudible before yelling back, “That’s a stupid thing to assume. But yes.” 

Steve smirks to himself as he hears his trunk pop open. He weasels a hand out from under the carrier to push open the door. He carefully steps over the salt line and walks to the living room.

The cabin’s different in the daylight, less eery almost. There’s still just as many weapons and odd artifacts taking up the room, but they’re less threatening when they don’t cast shadows and Steve can see that there’s no blood on them. 

The blanket that Steve slept under is folded over the arm of the couch. The pillow isn’t anywhere to be seen, so Steve assumes that Bucky put it back in his room. 

On one of the far walls of the cabin is a mess of pictures and maps that Steve hadn’t noticed last night. He steps closer to examine it, cradling Madame Liberty’s carrier to his chest to try to keep her calm. 

The pictures are an array of grainy photos from Google images, screenshots of old paintings, and sketches of mythical beings. The maps are made from thick paper, probably pulled straight from an atlas. There's a red string connecting maps to pictures, linking areas around the US to supernatural creatures that might be in their forests. 

A drawing of a blurry black dog with smoke billowing from its fur and blood dripping from its fangs has a string that only goes to two places; Greenwood, Mississippi, and Canton, New York.

Bucky suddenly stumbles into the cabin, cursing under his breath as he steps over the salt line. 

Steve can hear him struggling to close the door, possibly kicking it closed because his arms are full. 

“You could’ve taken trips, you know,” Steve comments, still looking at the maps and pictures. 

“I realized something, Steve,” Bucky says, his tone a bit more gleeful than Steve was expecting. 

Steve turns around, all smirk and cockiness wiped from his face as he looks at Bucky’s expression. 

He’s not smiling, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes that spins a knot in Steve’s stomach. He doesn’t take his eyes off Steve as he crosses the living room with his arms overloaded with groceries. 

He drops the groceries on the coffee table and plops on the couch, crossing his arms and spreading his legs. 

His mouth quirks up in the corner, handsome and suave like an old movie star. 

It reminds Steve of an ex he dated just after moving to New York. He was experimenting with his sexuality, just getting comfortable with it after all his years spent repressed through biblical teachings. 

The ex would smirk all the time because he knew it got Steve going, especially after a lighthearted argument. 

_ “Come sit on my lap, baby,” _ the ex would say with that same stupid smirk. And Steve, though he was as riled as a wet cat, would just do it. Because it felt nice to be wanted.

That ex ended up getting arrested for selling cocaine to an undercover cop in Harlem. Steve couldn’t pay his bail, so the ex never called him again. 

It’s an unfitting look for Bucky given the aura he’s had from the get-go, and Steve wants to smack that smirk right off his face. 

Steve stands awkwardly on the other side of the coffee table, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waits for Bucky to finish his thought. 

“What?” Steve snaps eventually, realizing that Bucky’s not about to say a goddamn world. 

“You’re scared,” Bucky states, tilting his head back just so. It makes the dimple in his chin deepen. “And you know you need my help.” 

“I am not scared,” Steve sputters defensively, accidentally jostling Madame Liberty. 

She yowls in her cage. A fluffy paw bats at the metal door and suddenly Bucky’s smile drops. 

“Oh god, that really is a fucking cat,” he says, wide eyes staring at the carrier in Steve’s hands. 

Steve glances down, forehead scrunched as he’s about to answer when suddenly a beautiful realization comes to him. 

“ _ You’re _ scared!” he laughs, pointing a finger at Bucky while balancing the crate in his arms. “You’re scared of my cat!”

Bucky’s lips press together and his eyebrows push downwards as he growls and snatches a grocery bag from where he left it on the table. 

“I am not scared of a cat,” he grumbles, shooting a slanted-eyed glare at Steve before peering into the bag at the various cans and dried goods inside. 

“What the hell is this?” Bucky asks, picking up a bag of basmati rice. 

Steve rolls his eyes and scoffs. He crosses the floor and snatches the bag from Bucky’s hand. 

“Real food,” he answers and stalks into the kitchen. 

He tosses the bag on the counter before bending down to put Madame Liberty’s carrier on the floor. He unhooks the lock and opens the metal door, which she cautiously steps out of. 

“She better not get fur all over my kitchen,” Bucky warns, coming into the kitchen behind Steve with the bags of groceries. “And all food is real food, by the way.” 

Steve doesn’t respond. He digs Madame Liberty’s bowl out of the side pocket of the carrier before snatching the cat food out from one of the grocery bags in Bucky’s arms. 

Bucky takes a startled step back, glaring at Steve and his cat before snarking, “Her collar’s giving me a headache.”

“Right? My roommate picked it out,” Steve agrees while filling up her bowl. He puts it down and she immediately begins to devour it, purring louder than Steve had heard her purr the entire time they’ve been in Canton. 

Steve straightens back up and wipes his hands on his pants. He looks at Bucky and asks, “What else do you know about hellhounds?” 

“There’s not much more,” Bucky shrugs, dropping the bags on the counter before looking inside. “But you know, there’s a theory that it isn’t the strongest man who can stare down a hellhound, but the most tenacious. Most times it just pisses them off, but if you stare at one long enough that it looks down first, then you’re in for good. Most people don’t know that.” 

“Well, what happens?” 

“You get turned into one,” Bucky shrugs, picking up a can of spam to inspect. His nose scrunches as he reads the ingredients. He puts it aside in his designated non-perishable pile and turns back to Steve, “But then you’re just stuck up here having to make sure all kinds of monsters, demons usually, don’t get hurt. I don’t think that would be much better. It’s just damnation in a different place.”

Steve shifts his weight and hums noncommittally. 

Bucky’s eyes narrow as he raises a finger at Steve and warns, semi-serious, “Don’t even think about it.” 

Steve rolls his eyes and grumbles, “I wasn’t gonna.” 

“Well, you seem like the type of tenacious little shit to try it,” Bucky retorts and starts digging through the bag again. 

Suddenly, Madame Liberty hops onto the counter beside Bucky, evoking a not-so-manly squeal from him as he flinches away from her. 

He composes himself with a frustrated huff before plucking her off the counter and placing her on the floor. 

“Stay,” Bucky demands, pointing a finger at her as she slowly blinks up at him. 

Madame Liberty walks over to Steve and twirls herself around his ankles. 

He awkwardly shifts his weight from foot to foot so he doesn’t fall over. 

“Why do you know all this stuff?” Steve presses, leaning against the counter to try and weasel his way into Bucky’s peripheral vision. He’s a bit annoyed that Bucky never really answered him last night. 

Madame Liberty digs her nails into Steve’s shin, so he grits his teeth and kicks his foot to shoo her away. 

Bucky’s eyes slide toward Steve for a moment, and he purses his lips like he’s thinking of a way to respond.

He glances back to the bag, pulls out a box of pasta, and reads the ingredients before saying, “I got a lot of free time. Used to hunt boars before I found out about these things. Figured it’s probably best for me and the boars to go after monsters instead.”

Steve crosses his arms. “There aren’t boars out here.” 

Bucky huffs and puts the box into the non-perishable pile, “I know that now.” 

Steve pauses, tilts his head and smirks. 

“You’re a bad liar,” he points out with a laugh. 

“No, I’m not!” Bucky argues, roughly placing a carton of milk into his perishable pile. 

“Oh really? Then explain why exactly it’s coming after me. It’s like it knows about—” Steve stops himself abruptly, not wanting to bring up the Doggy Rogers to the one person in Canton who might not know anything about it. He glances down at his hands and picks at a cuticle, “—about me being new to town.” 

“Maybe you did something to piss it off,” Bucky offers, completely oblivious to Steve’s stumbling words. He tosses a can of Spaghetti-O’s into the non-perishable pile and asks, “Did you ever say you could outrun one? That usually does it.” 

When Steve doesn’t answer, Bucky huffs and explains, “Look, I have no idea why it’s after you in particular. All I know is it led me out to your place a few times, and then it just sits there and watches you. It’s like an obsession, and it likes you scared. The other deaths were senseless and animalistic like the hound lost any kind of control. Those bodies were completely torn up. Probably why no one’s found them yet. I couldn’t even stop it before because I had no idea when it was going to strike. But it’s hunting you, treating you like a game.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Steve insists. 

“Apparently, you did.” 

The faces of the two newcomers come back to his mind. He didn’t talk to them before today, and they moved here after he left, but the way the rumor mill runs in this town and the fact that his mother’s tombstone is the only one in Canton’s cemetery covered in graffiti, it’s possible that they picked Steve as a target simply because he’s easy. 

Steve drums his fingers on the counter, internally debating whether or not to mention the odd couple. 

“Do you think it’s possible that there’s more than one?” Steve asks without looking up. 

“They don’t typically work in packs, and I’ve only seen the one but I suppose it isn’t impossible,” Bucky answers while eyeing Steve carefully. “Why?” 

“I just got a friend who mentioned two new people in town who came in just before people started going missing,” Steve answers with a shrug. “It’s probably nothing.” 

“Could be something,” Bucky grumbles under his breath like he hadn’t meant for Steve to hear it. He turns to Steve and adds, “I thought  _ you  _ were new in town.” 

“I’m not,” Steve assures, “I’m new to being back to town.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes, sharply tilting his head as his face scrunches in confusion. 

“What?” he spits. 

“My mother and I used to live here but the uh,” Steve stumbles, straightening up and rubbing at the back of his neck, trying to figure out the best way to lie to this guy. What is he supposed to say? 

_ “Oh, most of the town doesn’t believe in hellhounds because why the hell would they? But my crazy ma—who’s dead, by the way—did and I left town as soon as she died because I knew the only reason she died is that the town hated her so much that they just let her and I didn’t want my fate to be the same. Also, the house I’m trying to sell isn’t haunted, but with all the her she left behind it might as well be and I threw up the other day when I woke up in her bed because I never washed the sheets after she died in them. And even though you live out by yourself hunting monsters, I’m afraid I’m the crazy one because I still talk to my ma like she can hear me.”  _

Steve stutters, “Well, my grandpa—my ma’s old man, he’s been really sick. Or was, you know, so we moved out to be with her family in Pennsylvania. You know, to look after him.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow as he drops a can of beans into his non-perishable pile. 

“And your mother?” Bucky asks. 

Steve watches Madame Liberty sniff around the kitchen. He keeps his back to Bucky as he clears his throat and blinks his eyes dry. 

He knows that if he even implies that his ma’s no longer with him, then he’ll end up crying. It’s a weird habit he has yet to break since she passed, talking about her in the present tense as if she’s still here. 

Steve finds that he still does it, to strangers at least, like when he’s buying a coffee and makes a comment like ‘oh, my mother loves dark roast.’ or drawing flowers for a company’s logo and telling the manager that roses are his mother’s favorite. That way, if at least they think she’s alive, then a part of her still might be. 

“She’s too tired to deal with realtors,” Steve squeaks, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I hear mourning takes a lot out of a person.” 

“Hm,” Bucky grunts. He dumps two packets of hotdogs into the perishable pile when he adds, “so I’m assuming he passed?” 

Steve blinks like he’s coming out of a trance. “Who?” 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Your grandpa.” 

“Oh,” Steve swallows again and turns back to the counter. “Yeah. He died a few weeks ago.” 

Bucky’s lips quirk up like he’s trying to keep himself from laughing. He tosses the empty shopping bag into a far corner of the kitchen and starts pulling out items from the second bag. He puts two boxes of cereal in the non-perishable pile and a pack of frozen chicken with the perishables. That stupid smirk stays on his face the entire time. 

Eventually, he turns to Steve. He crosses his arms and leans his hip against the counter. 

“Hey, Steve.”

“Yeah?” 

“You’re a terrible liar, too.” 

Steve sputters, attempting to find a way to deny it. 

“I’m not lying!” he protests lamely. 

But Bucky’s already lost interest in his excuse because he simply turns to a high cabinet and opens it. It’s empty for the most part, safe for a dusty jar of sauerkraut and two cans of soup. 

He starts piling the food inside from top to bottom. He then takes the few items from the perishable pile and puts them in the ice chest. 

“So that couple?” Bucky reminds Steve, effectively changing the subject as he closes the cooler door and turns back to him. “What about them is so odd that you would think they’re behind this?” 

Steve rubs the back of his neck and stammers, “I think they’re following me.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Any particular reason why that made you come here?” 

Steve flusters and looks down at the counter. 

“They broke into my house,” Steve mumbles, picking at a chipped corner. 

Bucky hums. “Well, that’s not good.” He leans closer, observing Steve as he asks, “So you’re not going to be selling it anytime soon?” 

“Probably not.” 

Bucky crosses his arms. “Then why didn’t you just leave Canton anyway and go back to your mom?” 

Steve snaps his head up, slanting his eyes into a glare before snarking, “You just want me to say it, don’t you?” 

Bucky smiles innocently and tilts his head. “Say what?” 

“That I need your help.” 

Bucky grins coyly and waves his hand before joking, “Steve, you flatter me too much.” 

“You talked to it last night,” Steve comments abruptly. He hadn’t meant to say it either, not now, but it’s been on his mind. 

Bucky’s smile drops. 

“What?”

“I heard you. It howled and you said something back, something like  _ ‘why did you say that? _ ’,” Steve insists, crossing his arms and stepping closer to Bucky. 

“I was joking, Steve,” Bucky laughs awkwardly, stepping away from him and rubbing his neck. His eyes go around the kitchen until he finds a bag of rice he forgot to put away. He picks it up and fidgets with it. 

After a few moments of tense silence, Bucky asks stiffly, “You know anything else about this couple that might help me figure out if they’re the ones messing with you?” 

Steve shrugs and scratches the top of his head as he searches for a compact way of explaining the weeks of information Sam had given him. 

“Well, they’re odd,” he starts lamely. “And they, uh, live in the woods.” 

Bucky slowly looks up from the bag of rice, eyes narrowed. 

Steve hurries to explain, “It’s not just that. Other people in town have noticed that they’re weird. My friend Sam, who’s the most level headed person I know, thinks they have something to do with the disappearances that have happened in town.” 

Bucky’s face settles as he sighs, “Yeah, you mentioned that. It’s something to look into.” 

“They also have these weird necklaces with these, like,” Steve moves his pointer finger, drawing the picture in the air, “giant eye pendants.” 

That gets a reaction out of Bucky. It’s subtle, his eyebrows only raise for a second, but Steve catches it. 

Bucky’s expression becomes neutral as he nods. “I’ll look into it. But for now, stay here. Please. I’ll get you back to your mom as soon as I can, but I can’t do that if you run off again and this thing ends up eating you.” 

Steve rolls his eyes but relents. 

“Fine,” he says and snatches the bag of rice out of Bucky’s hands. “But I’m cooking.” 

Bucky shakes his head and stalks back to the living room. 

“Whatever you say, your highness,” he jokes before plopping down on the couch. 

Once it’s too dark and they’re both too tired to justify being awake any longer, Bucky declares that it’s time for them to get some sleep. 

“I’m not sleeping on the floor again. My back’s been killing me all day,” Bucky states as he sets up the couch for Steve with a pillow and the blanket he slept with the night before. He’s going through the effort of putting sheets on the couch, which Steve appreciates. 

Madame Liberty is asleep under the coffee table, which Bucky appreciates. 

Steve watches from the corner of the living room, arms crossed as he jokes, “That just means you’re old.” 

Bucky shoots him a glare from over his shoulder before picking up the pillow and chucking it at Steve. 

“Ow,” Steve complains after it hits him in the face and falls lamely on the floor. He huffs and snatches it up, holding it against his chest. “You’re an awful host.” 

“And you’re an awful guest, but I’m still letting you stay here,” Bucky retorts, adjusting the sheets and blanket. 

Once he’s satisfied with the results, he straightens up, turns to Steve, and raises a finger to sternly state, “If you hear something tonight— _ anything  _ that might sound odd—you come get me. You don’t lay here. You don’t scream. You sure as hell don’t go out and investigate. You get me, got it?” 

Steve scoffs but nods to appease him anyway. 

But Steve doesn’t need to get up and get him. An hour later, just as Steve’s about to fall asleep, the beast gives its first low growl. 

Bucky storms out of his room like a guard dog before Steve fully registers what happened. 

Steve lifts his head, still groggy, as Bucky’s curses at his shaken salt lines. 

It takes a while for Steve to realize what’s happening, especially since he can barely see what’s going on and he doesn’t have the energy to put on his glasses. He does though because he’s curious, and right now he figures it’s best if he doesn’t ask Bucky what’s wrong. 

Bucky kneels down and quickly brushes the salt to even the lines out again before standing up, unlocking the latches on the door hinge, pulling open the door, and stomping out onto the porch. 

Just as soon as Bucky’s outside and out of Steve’s sight, the beast’s growling stops. 

There’s a snap, like a branch being broken over someone’s knee. 

The hound gives one sharp yip, but not like it’s hurt. It sounds frightened. 

There’s the sound of heavy paws scurrying away and trees rustling further and further away as it runs away from Bucky’s property. 

Bucky stomps back inside soon after. 

Bucky slams the door, steps over the salt, and locks every latch. His face is stern, but more like he’s annoyed that he was woken up than angry that the hound was here. 

“Hey, Bucky,” Steve calls meekly, slowly sitting up. 

“What?” Bucky snaps over his shoulder, already stalking back to his room. 

“I thought you said nothing scared them,” Steve points out, eyeing Bucky’s tense shoulders carefully. “And you’ve scared it twice.” 

Bucky stops, fist balled at his side. He’s silent for a prolonged moment, long enough that Steve worries he won’t say anything. 

Suddenly, he melts. The stiffness leaves his shoulders as he deflates and turns his head slightly. 

“I guess I got a mean face,” he jokes, turning around and walking back to his room. 

And Steve lays back down, trying not to unpack all of that just as he’s trying to fall asleep. 


	11. Chapter Ten

The next morning, Bucky gets up at five o’clock sharp. 

He wakes Steve by boiling water in a kettle and letting the steam scream out for several long seconds before moseying over and switching it off. 

Steve groans and sits up, rubbing crust from his eyes and pushing his sweaty hair off of his forehead. 

“You’re up,” Bucky comments as if he’s surprised. “I made coffee if you want any.” 

It’s served with a side of grainy oatmeal that Bucky made from oats that have been stored in his cupboard for God knows how long. For what it’s worth, he takes some of the bananas Steve bought yesterday and cuts them in uneven chunks to put on top of it. 

Steve grimaces, but he reluctantly leaves his blanket cocoon on the couch and goes to the table to force himself to choke down his breakfast. 

Which he does, and Bucky almost smiles because of it. 

Steve is quick to find out that Bucky leads a very boring life. 

The days move slowly, like someone mixed syrup with the sand inside of an hourglass. 

After breakfast, Bucky goes out to the back of his property. 

There’s a neat setup back there. Some trees have been cleared away to make a suitable yard. There’s a decent chicken coop, with several boards that have been replaced with newer, lighter wood while the rest looks years old. There is also a water pump not far from the cabin and a tree stump with an ax stuck in it with a small pile of chopped firewood resting beside it. 

It looks like this setup was made decades ago. The pump is rusted and the coop is in need of more extensive repair. Everything about it screams early twentieth century, but Steve keeps any comments about that to himself. 

The sound of the chickens clucking and the branches of nearby trees groaning as they sway with the wind are about the only things Steve can hear. 

Bucky is silent as he stomps to the coop, tugging on his flannel on the way there. His boots leave deep prints in the muddy ground. 

The rest of the day goes just like this; Bucky feeds his chickens, gathers their eggs, chops wood for a fire, walks around the perimeter of his house to check on the various animal traps he’s set up, pumps water, and brings it inside to boil on the stove to make sure it’s clean. 

It’s all very old school, but Bucky seems comfortable with the routine. 

Steve follows him around like a duckling, trying to weasel his way into any task to make the days go by a little faster. 

“Can I help?” Steve asks whenever Bucky starts a new task.

“No,” Bucky grunts back every time, keeping his back to Steve and not stopping his work. 

And Steve huffs and flops backward onto any surface he’s resting on. 

“You’re making dinner, remember?” Bucky reminds him as if cooking one meal a day somehow makes up for Steve’s daylong boredom. 

Steve ends up overcooking the spaghetti that night, and Bucky pretends to be grateful even though he eats more bread than pasta. 

Steve knows he’s a better cook than Bucky, but that doesn’t make him a  _ good  _ cook. 

Steve huffs, leaning his head on his hand and swirling the fat noodles around his bowl as he wonders what the hell he’s going to do tomorrow. 

The next day, as an attempt to try to keep himself entertained, Steve tries to play with Madame Liberty. Only he doesn’t have any of her favorite toys or treats. He also forgot that she sleeps most of the day, so he ends up with a scratched arm for his efforts. 

She hides under the couch for the rest of the day, so Steve’s left with no choice but to follow Bucky around once again. 

It’s mid-afternoon. Steve’s been watching Bucky chop wood for nearly two hours. 

They’re set up in the backyard; Bucky swinging the rusty ax to split large pieces of wood and Steve sitting on a farther, higher stump with his legs dangling off the side. 

Steve’s letting his feet swing back and forth as he lets his thoughts wander to the wind on his skin, the painting he forgot to finish before he moved out here, an episode of  _ Criminal Minds  _ he never finished, and the lack of sun on his neck. 

The afternoons here aren’t as hot as they should be. They’re blessed with the high trees that block out most of the heat, but Steve almost misses the soft warmth on his skin whenever he walks into town. 

He doesn’t miss the city heat, though. The kind that’s thick and musty and weeps from the tarry asphalt and gets stuck in his lungs. 

Steve thinks about thanking Peggy, telling her that she was sort of right after all. He hasn’t talked to her in a few days and, knowing her, if he goes too long without calling she’ll send a search party out for him. 

“Do you get cell service out here?” Steve calls, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He hasn’t had a use for it the past few days considering Bucky doesn’t have wifi. 

Bucky stops chopping for a moment, breathing heavy from exertion as he straightens up and pushes his sweaty hair out of his face. 

“Do I get what?” Bucky asks, his heavy breathing weighing down his voice. 

Steve sighs and puts his phone back in his pocket. 

“Forget it,” he calls back while definitely not pouting. 

He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on his hands. 

There isn’t much else out there, no birds calling or deer roaming. It’s eerily quiet except for the occasional thunk of Bucky’s ax against the stump and the soft patter of the wood halves falling onto the grass-covered ground. The chickens cluck, but it becomes white noise. 

Bucky’s arms swing up in a fluid motion and swing back down to cut through the wood as easy as butter. 

There’s a sheen of sweat across his tan skin, making him glow in the soft sunlight that’s been filtered through the trees. 

Steve’s always had a liking for lumberjacks. As a child, he had an obsession with the cartoon  _ Hoodwinked _ , particularly the scene with the lumberjack chopping down the tree right before it tumbled over and rolled into the grandmother’s house. 

He didn’t have the words for it when he was little, only telling Ma that the scene made him feel happy. It was only when he was older and looking up burly, outdoorsy men online that he made the connection. 

Every time Bucky brings the ax up, his biceps bulge from under his flannel, making the fabric hug his skin. Pieces of his hair hang in front of his face, weighed down with sweat. 

Steve wonders what it would look like in a bun. What it would feel like between his fingers. Soft, maybe a little rough and dead at the ends. Maybe Bucky will let him trim it one day if they’re stuck like this for longer. 

The thing is, besides the boredom and the obvious danger of the hellhounds, Steve doesn’t mind staying with Bucky, no matter how little he really knows about him, because he’s been sweet. Soft-spoken maybe, and a little gruff at times, but he’s protected Steve when no one else would. Or could. 

Steve’s eyes wander down Bucky’s arms, down the parts of his shirt that have gone damp. He looks at his hands, at his fingers wrapped around the handle of the ax. He wonders how calloused Bucky’s palms are and the stories behind each scar on his fingers. He wonders what it would be like to hold them, to lace his fingers between his. 

And it’s only now, as he’s watching Bucky chop block after block, that he realizes he's gawking. 

He glances away, feeling his face burn bright red. He shuffles around, crossing his legs and folding into himself. 

As if he can feel the awkward aura Steve’s put out in the air, Bucky turns swiftly toward him, lowering the ax and raising his arms exasperatedly. 

“You need something, Steve?” he barks.

“Nope,” Steve gulps, quickly looking down and readjusting his pants before hopping off of the stump. “Just gonna head to the bathroom real fast.” 

“Don’t hurry back,” Bucky grunts, before swinging the ax again and cutting through the wood with a sharp clank. 

Desperate to not make his little incident yesterday too obvious, Steve continues to follow Bucky on the third day. 

He leans against a tall pine tree forty feet from the property while Bucky’s on his knees setting up a bear trap. 

“Can I do that?” Steve begs, overcome with boredom and tired of feeling useless. 

“No,” Bucky grunts.

“Why not?” Steve whines, throwing his head back against the tree. “I can help you, you know. I don’t just want to sit around all day. It’s boring.”

“Then read a book, Steve,” Bucky snaps.

On the morning of the fourth day, Steve finds himself sitting in front of Bucky’s bookshelf, legs and arms crossed as he reads the titles of the books closest to him. 

“ _ Mysterious Beasts in North America _ ?” Steve reads quietly to himself. He shifts his eyes over to the next book. “Or  _ The History of the Lochness Monster _ ?” 

He hums and leans back, silently debating between the two before reaching out and grabbing  _ Bigfoot; Fact or Fiction.  _

Later that day, Steve sits on the porch, leaning on one arm behind him and his legs crossed in front of him. 

He’s been out here all day, from morning to early afternoon. He just finished the book about Bigfoot, and it is easily the worst book he’s ever read. It reads like it was written by an outdoorsman who dropped out of high school and experimented a little too much with psychedelics as a teen. 

It’s still the most entertainment he’s had all week, and he’s not thinking of hellhounds which in itself is a win. 

“Huh,” he notes, rereading the author’s about me page, “he has a t-shirt line.” 

It’s called “Hairy Man”, and it’s only t-shirts with grainy images of Bigfoot from Google, but Steve debates getting his laptop from home so he can order one anyway. 

Unfortunately, the excitement of it is short-lived when a stack of firewood is dropped by his feet. 

Steve jumps, nearly kicking the pile over in the process while simultaneously falling onto his back. 

Once he rights himself, he glances up, holding his hand above his glasses to block out the bright sun. 

Bucky stares down at him with a neutral, almost unimpressed, expression. His hair has fallen in front of his face, and his sharp blue eyes are piercing even with the bright sun behind him. 

He looks away from Steve and nods to the pile of wood beside his feet. 

“Go stack those inside by the fireplace,” he commands. 

“Why?” Steve asks petulantly, quirking his head and leaning back on the heels of his hands. 

“You said you were bored,” Bucky explains simply and waves to the pile. “I hear doing things makes people less bored.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. He holds his hand out to Bucky so he can get a hand standing up, but Bucky rears back like a spooked horse. 

Steve quickly pulls his hand back in surprise, eyeing Bucky carefully before explaining, “I just wanted help up.” 

“Oh,” Bucky responds, cheeks turning pink as he awkwardly sticks his hand out toward Steve. 

“Here.” he offers. 

“I’m good,” Steve bites, pushing on his knees until he’s standing. 

“Oh, well, have fun then,” Bucky says, rubbing at his neck and gesturing to the wood again. He turns away to go back to the chopping block so he can chop more wood. Then he can move onto his next chore to complete his monotonous day.

Steve raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, muttering to himself, “Little hard when I’m stuck with you.” 

He coughs once into his elbow before stretching and shaking out his arms. He exhales and bends down to grab the wood, trying to remember if it’s lift with your legs not your back or lift with your back and not your legs. 

He shrugs and bends over anyway, figuring it won’t make much of a difference if he ends up hurting himself because at least then Bucky will have to make some kind of fuss over him and then Steve will have someone to talk to. 

His hair falls into his face as soon as he’s bent over, so he flicks his head to get it out of his eyes. As soon as his head turns, he sees Bucky staring back at him. 

Well, maybe at  _ him  _ isn’t the right word to use. 

Bucky’s leaned back, eyes slightly glazed over and looking right at Steve’s ass. 

Steve jolts upright, which startles Bucky, who’s eyes immediately move somewhere else. 

Bucky clears his throat awkwardly as he stiffly turns away. He wipes his palms on his pants as he goes to grab his ax. 

There’s a subtle shake in his arms that wasn’t there before and his face is red, but not from exertion. 

Steve bends down again to grab the wood, and as he turns to bring it inside, he smirks to himself. 

It looks like he’s not the only one who’s needing some kind of entertainment. 

He feels the warmth again, but it’s fluttering in his stomach. 

That night, as Steve’s sitting on the couch reading a book full of short ghost stories, Bucky comes up to the couch beside him.

He clears his throat twice. 

Steve looks up, raising an eyebrow. 

Bucky’s looking off to the side, wringing his hands before he nods to the seat beside Steve. 

“Do you mind if I—” he nods to the seat again and glances at Steve for a moment. 

Steve quirks his head, biting down on his lip hard so he doesn’t smile. 

It’s charming almost that Bucky can go from a self-assured grump to a nervous man after one awkward encounter. 

Steve shrugs and looks back down at his book. 

“I don’t mind,” he squeaks, and clears his throat quickly before lowering his voice to repeat, “I don’t mind at all. It’s your couch.” 

Bucky nods and sits down, close enough that Steve can feel the heat radiate off of his arm. Steve has to resist leaning onto him. 

It’s silent for a few moments, until—

“This is nice,” Bucky admits, leaning back against the couch. 

Steve smirks, but doesn’t look up from his book as he says, “Sure is.” 

Sometimes, Bucky goes out at night. He never tells Steve where he’s going. 

“I’ll be here before you wake up,” Bucky assures him while throwing on a coat and pulling on thick hiking boots. 

“Don’t go outside,” he warns as he unlocks the door and pulls it open. 

Steve rolls his eyes and plops back down on the couch. He throws the quilt over his head and sticks his arm out to give Bucky a thumbs up just before the door slams shut. 

_ Where have you been?  _ Sam texts one night. 

Steve sits back on the couch, a blanket around his waist as Bucky sits beside him polishing the barrel of a gun and packing rock salt into it. He glances at Bucky and notices the way the dim light from the ancient lantern highlights his cheekbones. 

He shifts and looks back at his phone. 

He’s surprised that a message came through to him, but he doesn’t share his joy with Bucky, who’s too busy with his gun to pay Steve any mind. 

_ Been meeting a bunch of realtors. Haven’t had time to stop by.  _ Steve texts back. 

He gets a response a few seconds later. 

_ Have you called Brock?  _

_ I haven’t needed to.  _ Steve types quickly, knowing Sam’s ability to read right through him but hoping he’ll buy it anyway. 

“You talking to your mom?” Bucky asks, glancing over at Steve before continuing to clean his gun. 

“Yup,” Steve replies easily before switching his phone off and putting it in his pocket. 

He misses a facetime with Peggy, who almost drives out to Canton just to make sure he’s okay. 

Steve locks himself in the bathroom and calls back an hour later. He convinces her to stay in the city, assuring her that he’s fine. 

She’s hard to convince, but eventually, the conversation eases and she goes back to asking him about the house, when he’ll return, and what show they should catch up on once he’s back. 

When he exits the bathroom an hour later, Bucky’s standing outside the door with his arms crossed. He’s bouncing on the souls of his feet and glaring at Steve. 

“Your mom must be really protective,” he bites as he pushes Steve out of the way of the bathroom so he can rush inside. He closes the door and says, “I don’t think I could talk to mine for an hour.” 

“There’s probably a search party out for you,” Bucky comments one night, a week after Steve started staying in the cabin. 

“What makes you think that?” Steve grunts while dicing tomatoes to make marinara. 

It’s hot and sticky in the kitchen; form the steam coming from the boiling water and the shut windows that Bucky refuses to open. 

Bucky shrugs, peering over Steve’s shoulder to observe his work, and says, “You’ve been gone a week. People in town are probably starting to miss you.” 

Steve huffs a sour laugh. All he got was the one text from Sam. 

If he was lucky, no one in town even noticed he was gone, but knowing his reputation, they all probably threw a party when he stopped showing up around town. 

“Steve?” Bucky prompts, leaning to look at Steve’s face. 

Steve scoffs and ducks his head lower. His chopping becomes sloppy until one tomato pops and squirts juice all over his shirt. 

Steve groans, tosses his knife aside and grabs a towel from the stove handle to wipe off his shirt. 

“No,” he snaps, turning to lower the heat on the stove so the water doesn’t boil over. “They’d be caught dead before they miss me. I bet that they’re all happy I’m gone.” 

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” 

“No one’s gonna go out of their way to search for the Doggy Rogers.” Steve huffs again. It’s a little wet this time. His lip is quivering like it’s trying to smile and his eyes are sad.

“The doggy rogers?” Bucky repeats slowly like he’s afraid he heard Steve wrong. 

“Some stupid name the town gave me and my ma,” Steve clarifies with a wave of his hand. “They didn’t like us too much.” 

Bucky tilts his head. 

“Why?” he asks in a perplexed tone that throws Steve off. 

Steve lifts his head, hands stilling. 

The water bubbles loudly on the stove. Tomato juice drips from the counter to the floor. Bucky breathes warm air through his nose that moves the hair at the top of Steve’s head. 

And suddenly, like realizing a bathtub’s gone cold, Steve turns to Bucky and says, “I don’t know. They just...there was no reason they just—” he cuts himself off with a shake of his head and looks back at his smashed tomato. “God, I don’t even know.” 

“Well, what about your ma?” Bucky asks, diverting the topic. “She’s gotta be worried.”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles, unfreezing and switching off the stove. He grabs two plates for the pasta, which clank loudly together as his shaky hands grab them and place them on the counter. He sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve, “She probably is.” 

“That’s good,” Bucky hums. “I was beginning to worry that we’d have something in common.” 

“What’s that?” Steve asks. 

“That if we were to die out here, neither of us would be missed,” Bucky answers, and glances over at Steve, “but you’ve got someone who would care.” 

And Steve doesn’t know if he can find comfort in those words because he knows that Bucky’s wrong. 

Peggy and Sam would move on, and no one else in the world would ever miss Steve Rogers. 

On the eighth night, it’s the smell that wakes Steve before the growls can.

As he breaks through the hazy fog of sleep, Steve first thinks that Bucky threw rotten meat in the garbage. But it’s huskier than that, like carnage and hot breath. 

Ma comes to his brain. 

Her room. The door. The smell as the funeral home workers carried her lifeless body out on the small gurney. 

It’s strong. Strong enough to make Steve believe the hairs inside his nostrils are being singed off. 

His chest clamps up on his next inhale as the smell clouds around him like thick smoke. 

“Oh, God damn,” Steve wheezes, pushing himself up until he’s sitting with his head between his knees. 

He sounds like an old sedan that billows smoke the second it’s turned on. His chest is rattly and his breathing is squeaky. 

It must be pretty loud, too, because it doesn’t take long for Bucky to run out of his room. 

His hair is mussed and tangled around his head as it curtains his face. His eyes are wild and his cheeks are pink, residue from fresh slumber. 

“What’s wrong?” he barks, voice tight with panic as he analyzes Steve from the other side of the room. 

Steve points fervidly to his bag sitting on the floor on the other side of the couch. 

“Inhaler,” he wheezes, hoping Bucky understands what that is. 

He’s in luck because Bucky all but sprints to Steve’s bag and unzips every pouch, shoving his hand into every crevice before he locates the inhaler. 

He rushes back to Steve, shaking the inhaler the entire way, and sits beside him. He passes Steve the inhaler and lets him uncap and press it himself, which Steve appreciates. 

He still can’t breathe though, which doesn’t help. He holds his breath before taking his ten deep breaths, but it’s not long before his lungs start spazzing out and he starts coughing. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Bucky commands, voice shaky with panic, as he unsurely rubs Steve’s back. “That’s all you gotta do. Just breathe for me, honey. That’s it, now.” 

Steve almost laughs. He wants to smack Bucky’s arm and push him away for calling him a sweet name. He wants to make a joke of this all and go back to sleep, but he can’t do that until he can breathe. He also figures he must look pretty shaken for grumpy Bucky to call him something so nice. 

“It’s gone,” Bucky assures, looking to the door for a second before looking back at Steve. “It just wanted to spook you, is all. You’re fine.” 

Steve takes another breath using his inhaler, and prays for it to start working, but all it does is help his lungs expand for a few seconds before they seize up again. 

“C’mon,” Bucky says, voice shaky while pulling Steve’s arm to hoist him off the couch. His palm is sweaty and calloused, but oddly gentle as he grips Steve’s bicep and starts to lead him away from the couch. 

His hold is like a mindful child holding a butterfly with a broken wing in their hands, terrified that one wrong move would crush the bug between their fingers.

Steve puffs the inhaler once more and focuses on taking ten deep breaths as he’s led to the only bedroom. 

“It’s usually not this bad,” Steve wheezes, stumbling along as Bucky gently pulls him toward his room. 

“Must be the cold,” Bucky responds, voice tight. “It’s always hard to breathe when it’s cold.” 

“No, it’s just—” Steve starts, but cuts himself off as a violent coughing fit overtakes him. 

Bucky stops, frantically patting Steve’s back until Steve waves his hand to shoo him away. 

“It was the smell,” Steve clarifies as soon as he’s found his voice. He clears his throat and swallows saliva, which burns as it makes its way down his raw esophagus. He finishes with, “I can’t stand how they smell.” 

Bucky hums, understanding Steve right away. 

“It’s a hunting trait,” he explains. “It overwhelms a human’s scent so the other senses aren’t up to speed. You can’t sense them coming as well as you normally would if there wasn’t the smell.” 

“It reminds me of something,” Steve mumbles. 

“Smells like a dead body,” Bucky states. “It probably reminds you of roadkill.” 

Steve hums in lieu of a response. 

His mother’s room comes to his mind. He can feel the floor press into his legs, her door against his back, the phone with the 911 operator droning through the line gripped in his hands. 

He stops, closes his eyes, and takes a very deep, very slow breath so he won’t work himself into another asthma attack. 

He’s here in Bucky’s cabin, in the middle of the woods, with a hellhound outside. As terrifying as that is, at least his mother’s corpse is nowhere near the property. 

Bucky flicks on a light and guides Steve forward. 

Steve opens his eyes and suddenly finds himself in the middle of the only room of the cabin he hasn’t seen. 

Steve’s surprised by its almost modern look. While the bed frame looks ancient and the quilt laying across it is just as old, there’s a digital alarm clock on the nightstand and a vacuum in the corner. 

If he ignores the bear trap beneath the window, the barbed wire across the pane, and the crucifix above the door, it could be just any old room. 

“I should’ve let you sleep in my room, and I should’ve taken the couch,” Bucky almost apologizes, in his own way. “It’s warmer in my room. And it’s farther from the door.”

“I’m the guest. I get the couch,” Steve insists, his breathing a little more steady but still not quite right. 

Bucky doesn’t answer. Instead, he nudges Steve forward to sit down on the bed.

The quilt that lays across it is rough and smells strongly of mothballs. It’s a simple design with pieces that have been carefully cut and arranged to create a decent pattern. 

Bucky stands above him with one arm hesitantly out, like he wants to help Steve but he’s too scared to touch him. 

Eventually, he reaches forward and brushes his fingers against Steve’s shoulder. 

Steve can feel Bucky’s calluses through his shirt, and his stomach heats up. His hands are rough, just like Steve imagined, but he never thought Bucky could be capable of touch so gentle. 

Bucky lightly nudges him to get him to lay down. 

As he does, Steve looks up to find Bucky’s soft, blue eyes looking down at him, looking at his chest to watch his breathing. 

Bucky’s eyes drift upward, slowly, steadily, until they match with Steve’s. 

They stare at each other silently, until Steve finds that he’s somehow matched his breathing with Bucky’s. 

Bucky seems to notice this too because, just as quickly as he made it, he breaks eye contact and looks to the far wall. The apples of his cheeks flush red like someone dusted their great aunt’s red blush across his cheekbones.

“Well, I guess I better—” he starts, pointing his thumb to the door and taking a backward step toward it. 

“Don’t,” Steve cries, voice panicked as he reaches forward and grabs Bucky’s wrist. “Just stay.” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, taken aback. He looks down at Steve’s hand gripping his wrist and nods twice. “Okay.” 

Bucky shuffles to the other side of the bed before stiffly climbing up. He first settles on his knees before slowly laying back and stretching his legs forward. He rests his hands on his stomach and taps his fingers as he keeps his eyes on the ceiling. 

Steve huffs and rolls over, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him so he’s laying on his side. Steve keeps a hold of his hand as he puts it over his stomach so they’re laying in a mock spooning position. 

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” Steve says, glancing over his shoulder at Bucky. 

“I don’t,” Bucky replies too quickly. 

“Good,” Steve sighs. He turns back over and closes his eyes. He rubs his thumb along Bucky’s cut knuckles as he feels the tension slowly leave Bucky’s body. 

“This is nice,” he admits in a whisper. 

He feels Bucky’s chest rumble against his back as he hums in agreement. 

Then they fall silent. 

As he feels Bucky’s breathing even out against the back of his neck, Steve pretends that this is normal. 

Maybe they’re strangers that met at the bar and hurried to Bucky’s apartment to hook up. Or they’re lovers who ran away to the woods to just be by themselves. Or they’re just two very normal, very sane people without a monster outside of their house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I had a doctor's appointment.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Steve has had the same nightmare ever since Ma died. 

She never let him walk in the woods alone, but somehow he finds himself in the thick of it, wandering about without trying to find his way home. 

There’s no sound of birds nor the smell of pine. There’s a bitter cold that seeps around him, one that is normally only felt in the crispest days of autumn. 

“It’s coming from the trees,” Ma says behind him. 

He can hear her warm smile through her voice even though he cannot see her. 

“Where are you, Ma?” he asks. 

He can’t turn toward her voice. He suddenly notices that there’s something sticky beneath his feet, making every step heavy and awkward. And yet, he can’t stop walking. 

“I’m with you, Stevie,” she assures. “That’s all that matters.” 

But her cold hands that always smelt of chamomile lotion don’t wrap around his shoulders. Her thin blonde hair doesn’t tickle his forehead like it always did when she leaned down to hug him. 

He can’t feel her around him like he wants to. 

Her comforting presence is hollow, as are her words. 

“Don’t walk too deep. I want you to find your way back,” Ma cautions. 

As she says it, the stickiness seems to increase. He can barely move his feet and yet he can’t stop moving forward, stepping deeper into the unknown forest. 

“Ma, I can’t stop,” he wheezes, chest seizing with shooting pains. The cold always sparked his asthma and his inhaler isn’t in his pockets. 

“You go too far, Stevie, and I’ll never be able to find you,” is the last thing she says before the world falls into a buzzing silence. 

His footsteps don’t make a noise, and neither do his frantic breaths. 

Until a twig snaps behind him, cracking like a shotgun through the thick of the trees. 

He twists toward it without thinking, suddenly able to unstick his feet from the ground. His heart makes leaps and bounds as it tries to escape his chest. 

“Ma?” he calls 

When he turns, he inhales the sour smell of death, like the bitter smell that came from her mouth when she laid lifeless in her bed. 

The grassy ground is soured by a trail he left. Every footprint he left behind is filled with moldy oatmeal. 

Ma’s corpse is laying on the ground behind him, just a few meters away, the same as it was the day she died. 

Her jaw hangs open. Her eyes are marbled. The skin of her face has gone yellow. She’s been overcome with bugs, big fat beetles, as they crawl in her mouth and ears and nose. 

_ “You’ve gone too deep, Stevie,”  _ Ma says forlornly, but the words don’t sound from her mouth. They pierce through the air around him and sting his ears. 

He presses his hands over them and squeezes his eyes shut as he screams bloody murder through the silent forest. 

He feels her cold breath on his neck when she finishes,  _ “Now I can’t see you.”  _

Steve lurches up in bed and is immediately blinded by the morning sunlight beaming through the window. 

He groans and goes to put a hand over his eyes, but stops as he notices his legs wrapped in a quilt. 

“You okay?” a voice grumbles beside him. 

Steve jumps, nearly falling off the bed as he twists and sees Bucky laying beside him. 

Steve remembers last night. The smell. His breathing. Bucky’s calloused hand on his stomach. 

He swallows and nods. 

“Yeah,” he squeaks. “Peachy keen.” 

That night changed everything. 

The air has shifted. The palpable tension between them has dispersed. 

Steve no longer sleeps on the couch. 

If Bucky leaves at night, he always says he’s sorry and that he wishes he didn’t have to go. 

But Steve knows that he’s driving the hound away, buying them some more time so they can come up with a plan. 

Bucky’s exterior has melted. He jokes around a lot, smiling whenever Steve does. He’s confident at times, suave, and charming. There’s still that gruff layer to him, the one that warns Steve not to leave when it’s dark and to always check the salt by the door. 

Steve doesn’t mind it though. 

Bucky’s stern behavior might be the one thing that’s keeping them alive. 

It doesn’t mean that Steve doesn’t get bored. 

He’s read all of the interesting looking books on Bucky’s shelf, and he can’t talk himself into reading something like  _ Hunting the Supernatural: For Dummies.  _

One night, Bucky and Steve are lazing on the couch. Bucky is sharpening a knife and Steve is counting the ridges in the tin roof above them. 

“Wish you had a TV or something,” Steve grumbles, readjusting himself to sink lower into the couch. “Time might move a little bit faster if there was something we could watch.” 

Suddenly, Bucky smirks slyly. He slowly leans forward and places his knife and sharpener on the coffee table. Then, he turns to Steve to say, “I have something that could pass the time.” 

His eyes dart to Steve’s lips before slowly dragging up to meet Steve’s eyes. 

Steve swallows, trying to soothe his suddenly dry throat. 

“You do?” he squeaks. 

Bucky huffs a laugh and leans forward, rapidly closing the distance between him and Steve. 

Steve’s heart thumps painfully in his chest as he watches Bucky’s lips move closer to him. His palms start to sweat and his brain buzzes, thinking  _ Oh God, is this really happening? Like this? Right now?  _

But then Bucky stops centimeters away from Steve and smiles. 

“I have cards,” he grins, before pushing himself off the couch and heading to his storage drawer in the kitchen. 

Steve groans and falls back against the couch, covering his eyes with one hand and curling his other into a fist so he doesn’t flip Bucky off. 

Turns out, Steve’s shit at poker, and Bucky cheats. 

By the second week of Steve’s stay at the cabin, Bucky finally relents and lets Steve help him with one task. 

Steve’s never been happy to have to do laundry before, but when he’s laying on the hard floor, staring at the ceiling long enough that the tin ridges start to look like they’re moving, seeing Bucky appear above him and ask if he wants to help with something feels like an invitation to an all-inclusive resort. 

Bucky rushes through the instructions of washing the clothes in the bathtub and hanging them on the line out front to dry. 

Steve half listens to him, thinking that since he’s done his own laundry a thousand times, this won’t be much different. 

Except he’s only ever done his laundry at the laundromat. 

So when he’s done and Bucky checks out his work a few hours later, it isn’t a surprise that Steve did it wrong. 

“You used too much starch,” Bucky states, crossing his arms and staring at the stiff clothes hanging like cardboard on the laundry lines. 

“Maybe you should just give me something else to do, then,” Steve shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at Bucky suggestively before casting his eyes down and back up. 

Bucky side-eyes him before huffing a dry laugh. 

“Maybe I should.”

Perhaps Steve wasn’t being clear enough because the next morning, Bucky tells him to collect the eggs from the chicken coop. 

Steve definitely doesn’t pout as he does it, but he shows that he isn’t happy about it. 

When he comes back in with a basket full of uncracked eggs, Bucky smiles, cooks them scrambled, and tells Steve, “Looks like we just found you a new job.” 

One day when Steve finishes his new job, he walks inside to find Bucky on his knees with his arm tensely outstretched toward Madame Liberty, who is hiding beneath the table. 

“Here kitty, kitty,” Bucky chants, shaking the piece of chicken pinched between his fingers out to her. 

His face is pale and his teeth are gritted together as he stretches his arm closer to her. 

Madame Liberty cautiously steps closer, nudging the piece of chicken with her nose and smelling it. 

It takes a few tense moments, but eventually she opens her mouth and snatches the meat from Bucky’s fingers. 

Bucky silently moves back, watching the cat cautiously as he switches into sitting with his legs crossed. 

Once Madame Liberty finishes devouring the piece of chicken, she carefully prowls out from under the table. 

Steve is convinced for a few seconds that she’s about to pounce on Bucky and scratch his face. Before he can start to intervene, she simply walks into Bucky’s lap and plops down, purring calmly as she kneads his pant leg. 

Bucky holds his hands up stiffly, looking at her with wide eyes as she begins to doze off. Then, he slowly brings one hand down and pets the top of her head with one gentle finger. 

His lips raise into a soft smile as she begins to purr loudly. 

“She hasn’t eaten in a while. I felt bad,” Bucky explains without looking up at Steve, showing that he knew he was there the whole time. 

Steve hums in agreement, walking over to place the basket of eggs on the table before kneeling beside Bucky. He sticks his hand out for Madame Liberty to smell, but she gives it one disinterested look before turning away. 

Steve huffs and drops his hand back into his lap. 

“Yeah, I was gonna call my roommate about that. She has a way of getting Liberty to do whatever she wants,” Steve says. 

“Roommate?” Bucky asks slowly, flicking his eyes to Steve before looking back at the cat in his lap. 

“She’s just a good friend,” Steve explains, suddenly feeling very panicked that Bucky might think differently. “Nothing more.” 

“Never said she was,” Bucky grumbles defensively, and rubs under Madame Liberty’s chin until she’s purring loud enough that it can be heard three rooms over. 

Steve rolls his eyes and sits back, sticking his arms behind him and resting his body weight on his palms. 

If they end up stuck here for much longer, at least his cat likes one of them.

Steve hates taking naps. He doesn’t like the feeling that he’s wasting half of his day only to have a hard time sleeping that night. 

Yet here he is on a warm Thursday afternoon, inside, napping on the couch. 

He blames it on the fact that Bucky snores like a ninety-year-old smoker and the hound has been growling louder and louder every night, so Steve hasn’t been blessed with much sleep. 

So, this nap is a godsend. It’s the softest he’s felt in a long time, maybe since moving to the city. 

It reminds him of the naps he’d take in the summertime when Ma would put a wet rag that she pulled from the freezer around his neck. 

There’d be a pencil loosely gripped in his hand as his face pressed against the drawing he had just started. 

She’d wake him up eventually, kneeling on his lumpy mattress that laid beside her bed as she rubbed his back and told him that he’d waste the entire day if he kept napping. 

Bucky comes inside before too long, sweaty and panting. He walks right up to the couch and shakes Steve’s shoulder roughly. 

“Rise and shine,” he calls cheerily. “You’re not gonna sleep at all tonight if you spend the whole day napping, Stevie.” 

Steve groans, turning his head as he groggily rubs his eyes. 

“Ma?” Steve asks. 

Bucky stiffens, pulling his hand from Steve’s shoulder as if it burnt him. 

“It’s Bucky,” he clarifies in a tight voice. 

Steve’s eyes flash open as he jolts away.

“Sorry,” he coughs.

“It’s fine,” Bucky shrugs and rubs at the back of his neck.

Steve sits up and pushes himself from the couch, moving to another side of the room. He fiddles with a book he left on the counter, refusing to look at Bucky when he laughs and says, “Guess the only person who calls me Stevie is my ma.” 

“I won't call you it again if you—” 

“No. no, I don’t mind,” Steve assures, waving his hand as if to brush this whole thing off. “Just caught me off guard, is all.” 

Bucky blinks at him, leaning back a hair and raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, okay.” 

Then, to diffuse the awkward tension, Steve smiles and asks, “So, what are you thinking about for dinner?” 

When Steve wakes up the next morning and checks his phone, he only sees the date written on the top of the screen. 

_ August 17th.  _

He hadn’t even realized it was August yet, and so now he’s left to wonder how the worst day of the year managed to sneak up on him. 

Some days it hits harder than others. 

Especially on this day. The day’s always completely different but the date stays the same, as does the pain. 

Steve once read in a web article that grieving comes in waves. There’s no finite stop. It doesn’t just go away. Sometimes, most times, it just gets worse until you will yourself not to feel anything anymore.

And then you feel worse because you feel like you’re forgetting and that’s just not fair for that person you miss to be treated as if they were never there at all. 

These thoughts used to hit Steve every night. Then every few nights. Then once a week. Once a month. 

He thought that after five years it would go away completely, and yet the feeling is here and it’s strong. 

Coming back here hasn’t helped. There was supposed to be closure or good memories or a quick pack up and goodbye. He wasn’t supposed to start mourning her again. 

And there's no silence that comes at night. Especially not in the woods. 

It’s dusk still, but the owls have come out to hoot and hunt, and crickets are chirping up a storm. 

Steve doesn’t mind it though. Not on nights like this. 

It starts as a small feeling. A dull feeling. One that he doesn’t notice until it expands into something uncontrollable. 

It gets raw and real. He can hear her laughing on these nights. He can feel her dry palms on his face and her chapped lips on the top of his head. 

He can see her dying. He can see her face when he found her in bed that morning. 

Her glassy eyes lulled to one side and her head tilted back at an unnatural angle. Her mouth was open. Something tarry and black was stuck in her teeth. 

He can feel the cream of wheat he just made her burn his leg because the bowl slipped from his hands when he reached out to shake her. He feels himself screaming for help only to remember that he’s the only one that’s ever been there. 

The crying was the worst part. Sobbing into her cold, stiff chest as rigor mortis hit and he kept asking, “God, why would you take her? Why would you kill your daughter if you loved her so much?” 

It’s a good thing Bucky goes out at night for a while to check the perimeter because it gives Steve a chance to grieve alone.

This thing doesn’t happen often but when it does, it’s downright unbearable. 

He doesn’t like to think about it. He doesn’t. It hurts and it stings and it's raw and he hates it. He hates that he still feels like this, even after all this time, after all these years and supportive words and periods of grief. 

He hates it, but he misses his ma. 

He misses her so badly. He’s never gonna stop missing her. If they had a little bit more money, a little bit more time, a little bit more sympathy from the town, then maybe she’d still be here. 

But she’s not. And Steve misses her. 

So much. 

A few minutes after Bucky left, Steve dragged a quilt off the couch and brought it outside, figuring some fresh air could do him good. 

He laid it just beyond the porch where the ground held twigs, dirt, and brown leaves. 

Now, those rough parts of Mother Nature are digging into his spine. Mosquitoes buzz above and he has to swat them off his arm periodically, but it’s alright. 

The cool, damp air keeps him grounded in the present. The breeze ruffles his hair instead of Ma’s hands and bugs try to kiss his cheeks. 

He’s got all these stars to look at. All those stories inside of constellations to distract him. There’s Orion's belt. Betelgeuse sits at the bottom, that poor dying thing.

He still stares up at the sky when the telltale sound of boots crunching twigs, dirt, and dead leaves approach. 

It's still for a moment. Only the noisy night surrounds them. 

Until—

“Almost dark,” Bucky comments, his gruff voice cutting through the tranquility of the forest but bringing Steve a new sense of calm. 

Steve nods. He doesn’t yet look over. 

There’s a twinkle in a corner of the sky, dancing behind a tall tree branch. It’s a pulsar, as he learned in a class in high school. Scientists used to think they were signals from little green men far, far away. 

But it isn’t. Just a weird scientific phenomenon where an old, dead star spins too fast. Sometimes it’s that simple. There’s no one else but them in the never-ending expansion of the universe that stretches over billions upon billions of galaxies that each hold billions of stars and planets. 

It’s an awful lonely thing, but at least this sort of thinking helped Steve get through school without crying too much over not having any friends. 

However, even though this Earth is so small and alone, there’s still so much evil just beyond the trees. Not just the hounds, but the people. 

There’s a shuffle forwards, a dip in the blanket, and a crunch in the earth. 

Bucky’s hand touches Steve’s hair like it’s made of sugar floss. He says, “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself, Stevie.” 

“I know,” Steve answers robotically like he’s only saying it because he knows it’s what Bucky wants to hear.

“Something could’ve happened.” 

“I know. I just needed some air.” 

“It’s  _ dangerous _ , honey.” 

“My ma’s dead.” 

And there it is. He’s said it. He’s said it and it’s done with. He’s said it without an ounce of emotion, just a cold, hard fact. That’s all it is really. A fact. 

The night gets noisy again. Lots of hooting and chirping and snapping and creaking. 

Bucky hasn’t said anything. His hand leaves Steve’s hair but he shuffles down so they’re lying side by side. 

“Sometimes it just hits,” Steve continues, still looking at the big, dark sky that never ends, “and I just miss her.”

They lay there for a moment. Quiet. 

Then, Bucky whispers, “I’m really sorry.” as if he had something to do with it. As if it wasn’t something that just happens. 

Steve still looks at the stars when his face turns something sour. He chews on his lips and shakes his head. 

His voice breaks when he confesses, “I shouldn’t still be hung up over it. It was a few years ago, but...sometimes it’s hard, you know?”

“I know. I lost a lot of people over the years, Stevie. I know.” 

“She’s just dead.” 

“I know, hon. I know.” 

“And I wish she wasn’t,” he says, voice cracking like a teenager and thick with mucus. A fat tear rolls down his cheek and he rubs it away harshly with the scratchy sleeve of his jacket. 

Before another tear can fall, Bucky gently pulls Steve’s arm and rolls him to his chest, where the tears just come like fat and dirty raindrops. 

He’s crying, really crying now. It’s coarse like a rope. His throat hurts. His eyes burn. And it's awful because he shouldn’t still miss her this much. Only he does, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop. 

He cries into Bucky’s chest and everything hurts so bad he can’t find it in him to be ashamed. 

Bucky, for what it’s worth, doesn’t say a thing. He runs his hand over Steve’s hair and his back and keeps him close. 

He presses a dry kiss against the top of Steve’s head and then rolls over so he can sit up. 

Steve’s still sobbing away, but now awkwardly sitting in Bucky’s lap with his legs splayed out in two directions. 

“Let’s go inside, alright, sweetheart?” Bucky mumbles, gently nudging Steve back, “Let’s get you inside. It’s gonna be really dark soon.” 

He doesn’t say it, of course, but the threat hangs in the air. 

No matter the circumstance, the sharp-jawed beasts always come out when it’s dark. 

“Sometimes I worry no one would miss me if I was dead,” Steve confesses. “I always hated thinking that when I was little, but I knew it was true.” 

“They will, Steve. No one dies unnoticed.” 

Bucky’s Adam's apple bobs after he says it, and he’s staring off with a glassy-eyed look at the forest past Steve’s head. 

“Ma did. No one cared that she was dead. No one but me and she was all I had,” he croaks, raw and broken into the bitter night air. 

Bucky takes a deep breath. His chest sucks in and puffs out, and Steve moves with it. 

He doesn’t say anything else as he helps Steve stand, wraps his arm tightly around Steve’s shoulders, presses him close to his body, and leads him inside. 

Steve’s thankful for it. 

He’s done with tonight. He feels very done with it all. 

Steve realized long ago that when something big happens, it’s nothing like how it is in the movies. 

Steve stays inside the next day, his eyes sore and his throat raw. 

He has a blanket thrown around his shoulders and a cup of chamomile tea in his hands that Bucky just brewed for him. 

It’s midday, not long past noon. The sun is so high in the sky that the trees can’t block it. The light coming in through the window is so bright that not even the weapons are daunting. 

Bucky comes over after a few minutes to sit beside him. He gently takes Steve’s empty mug and places it on the coffee table. 

“Thanks,” Steve whispers, voice hoarse. 

He looks down at his hands. Without anything to occupy them, he starts wringing them tightly together until the skin starts to burn. 

They haven’t talked about last night yet, and Steve’s not sure he’s ready or ever will be ready to discuss what happened. 

He was caught in his lie, his stupid lie, about his own dead mother. Which means it’s done; she’s dead. No one that Steve knows thinks she’s alive anymore, and it hurts just as bad as it did when he watched her casket get lowered into the ground. 

He had so many final goodbyes, and he will never stop saying them, which is why he can’t talk about last night. 

Bucky, thankfully, doesn’t say anything for a while. He just remains a large, silent presence beside Steve. He must have a sixth sense, or maybe really good intuition because he always seems to know when to stop pushing things. 

Steve can feel Bucky’s body heat from his biceps centimeters away from his own. His soft flannel occasionally brushes against Steve’s arm.

Though Bucky’s not saying anything, and he probably won’t say anything, it’s nice just having someone there. 

A while passes before Bucky shifts toward him, not turning to fully face him, as he asks, “Steve?” 

“Yeah?” Steve croaks, voice still raw. He doesn’t look up from his hands. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Steve reels back, blinking his owlishly wide eyes. His face flushes and his palms start to sweat. His pulse quickens, but he isn’t scared. 

“Yeah,” he stutters, the word leaving before he even registers that he opened his mouth. 

Bucky gives him a soft smile, his eyes lighting up at the confirmation. 

He turns his knees toward Steve, gently leaning forward and putting his palms on either side of Steve’s face. 

He doesn’t press down or pull Steve forward in a way that Steve’s old boyfriends might have. 

They were all about dominance, about showing off their masculinity and letting Steve know who’s in charge. They’d kiss him and leave him and it would hurt. 

He expected the same from Bucky, given his stature and nature. 

But Bucky’s gentle, holding Steve’s face like a porcelain doll. He doesn’t reel Steve in as if he’s a freshly caught fish. Instead, Bucky leans forward until his lips softly press against Steve’s. 

His lips are chapped and his palms are rough and calloused, but it’s the kindest touch Steve’s received in a long time. 

It’s a sweet, short kiss. Innocent almost, like a church boy kissing his date after the school dance. 

It’s different than Steve imagined it would be, but it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. 

They kiss a lot after that. 

They happen throughout the day. When Bucky passes Steve on his way to the kitchen. When Steve goes out to bring Bucky a glass of water when he’s chopping wood. When Steve starts cheating at poker. 

They’re never deep. They’re never rough. They never go on longer than a few seconds, and Steve loves them all. 

To avoid any suspicion from his friend, Steve convinces Bucky to let him go visit Sam at his bar. 

Bucky’s reluctant at first, since the bar was the last place Steve saw their top suspect for who the hellhound might be, but he gives in when he realizes that Sam might try and form a search party, which would scare the hellhound into killing Steve sooner. 

Steve pulls into the bar parking lot early in the morning right as Sam’s closing. 

He peeks through the window on the door and spots Sam stacking the chairs on top of the tables. 

Steve knocks on the window, accidentally spooking Sam, who jumps about ten feet back. 

When Sam sees who it is, his shoulders relax and he puts on his boyish smile as he walks up to unlock the door. 

“Rogers!” he beams, pulling Steve into a big hug. “Haven’t heard from you in so long I was afraid you headed back to the city.” 

Steve gives a small smile back as Sam lets him go, saying, “You know I wouldn’t dip out without saying bye first.” 

“How’ve you been?” Sam asks, walking behind the counter. He picks up some glasses on a drying rack and begins to wipe them down as he raises his eyebrow and questions, “Any word on the house?” 

Steve hoists himself onto the barstool, looking off to the side as he scrambles his brain for an explanation as to why he can’t find a realtor yet. 

“Nothing on the house, but um, I’ve been good,” he claims, trying and failing to suppress his smile. “I’ve been spending some time outside, working on my yard and stuff. Even started chopping my own firewood.”

“Really?” Sam laughs. “It’s a little warm for a fire.” 

Steve shrugs, unable to think of a believable excuse. 

Sam chuckles softly, looking off to the side with an amused smile as he says, “Weirdly enough, that reminds me of a story  _ my  _ mom used to tell me. Did you ever hear about the man in the woods? Forced to chop wood for eternity or some nonsense like that.” 

Steve blinks, looking down at the counter. He had heard that story, though a bit different, of course. 

He always heard that this was the man who brought the hounds to Canton, and he was forced to lure children out to the woods for the hounds to eat. 

Oddly enough, it almost reminds him of someone. 

Before he can dwell on that thought for much longer, Sam hums and crosses his arms, leaning on the counter as he looks Steve up and down. 

“Fresh air might be doing you good, Rogers,” Sam points out.

“Why’s that?” Steve asks, crossing his arms. 

“Last time I saw you, you were paler than a ghost. Now you’ve got some color to you,” Sam says, nodding to Steve’s face. 

“I do?” Steve asks, subconsciously touching his cheeks. 

“Yeah,” Sam laughs, “you’re going pink.” 

Steve can’t say exactly when it happened. Whether it was in Bucky’s bed, the grocery parking lot, or earlier that morning, but there’s something blooming in his stomach. 

He’s washing the dishes when he realizes it.

He stops in the middle of scrubbing a pot with dried beans stuck around the rim. He looks up and thinks  _ huh, now that’s an odd feeling.  _

_ “She won’t eat dry food, Steve. You know that,”  _ Peggy admonishes Steve at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning. 

“Well, maybe you should make your cat a little less picky,” Steve snarks back, putting his free hand on his hip.

He decided to stay inside this morning since it’s windy and he worries that there’s pollen in the air that could spark an allergy attack. 

He’s near the window, though, so he can watch Bucky complete his morning chores. 

_ “How is your asthma, Steve?”  _ Peggy asks, forcing her tone to stay light even though there’s an obvious concern.  _ “Has the weather helped it at all?”  _

Steve smiles, almost missing her mother hen antics. He leans against the counter and looks through the window. 

“It’s doing good,” he starts, watching Bucky feed the chickens. “I just hope my heart’s going to be okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat's out of the bag now! What do we think this means for the future of our favorite duo? And have things been too nice for too long....? 
> 
> I guess we'll have to find out tomorrow! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! 
> 
> -Emily


	13. Chapter Twelve

It’s four o’clock on a Saturday morning and Steve can’t sleep. 

He can’t sleep because he’s been thinking, which is something he hasn’t done much of lately because he’s been scared of monsters and falling for the strange hero who lives in the woods. 

The strange hero who lives in a  _ cabin  _ in the woods. 

And knows a lot about hellhounds. 

And who’s secretive about his past. 

And acts like he’s from a different time. 

And doesn’t like to talk about making deals. 

Suddenly, Steve lurches up and exclaims, “Oh my God!” 

He turns to Bucky, who is unhappily roused from his sleep, and jabs a finger into his arm to exclaim, “You’re the man from the woods! The one who made the deal!” 

Bucky groans and turns away from Steve, pressing his face into his pillow and throwing his arms over his head. 

Steve crosses his arms and leans against the headrest, staring at Bucky in awe. 

“My ma told me about you, but even she didn’t think you existed.” 

“Wow, you’re quick,” Bucky grumbles into his pillow. “Any reason why that clicked at four in the morning?” 

Steve shrugs. “Just kind of connected the dots.” 

Bucky turns his face away from his pillow, his matted and long hair hanging in front of his face. He snaps, “Well, what the hell else did you think I was?” 

Steve scoffs defensively and looks stubbornly to the other side of the room. 

“I mean, I don’t know,” he snaps back, “I figured you were just a hunter. Besides, I always heard the man lures in kids to feed them to the hound. I’m not a kid and you’re kind of keen on keeping me away from the hellhound, so—”

“Oh my God,” Bucky exasperates, pushing away from his pillow before sitting up and sending an incredulous look to Steve. “Is  _ that  _ what they’re saying now?” 

Steve leans away, carefully eyeing Bucky up and down. His voice is barely louder than a whisper when he asks, “Does that mean you’re a hellhound, too?” 

“Why do you think I can’t kill it, Steve?” Bucky grunts, laying back down, crossing his arms behind his head, and closing his eyes. “And you knew it wasn’t afraid of me.” 

Cautiously, Steve scoots a little closer. 

“So, uh,” he starts, trying to think of what he wants to ask first, “Does that mean you can shapeshift, too?” 

“Sure does,” Bucky hums without opening his eyes. 

Now suddenly wanting to know what Bucky looks like as a hellhound, Steve debates asking him. 

But figuring that Bucky won’t appreciate a question like that, Steve settles for a stupider one. 

Steve twirls the quilt between his fingers as he asks, “Is there like, a full moon coming?” 

“I’m not a werewolf. I’m a hellhound. Means I can turn whenever I want,” Bucky’s face twists as he subconsciously scratches his neck. “Does sorta itch after a while though. Aches something bad if I don’t turn for long.” 

“When’s the last time you turned?” Steve asks. 

Bucky shrugs. “Year ago, maybe?” 

Intrigued, Steve leans closer to Bucky and bombards him with questions, “So how’d you become one? Was it the eye thing? Or did you get bit? Or is it something—” 

“ _ Stevie _ ,” Bucky groans, throwing his hands over his face, “sweetheart, it’s early, okay? Ask me in the morning.”

“It is morning,” Steve points out, looking pointedly at the digital alarm clock. 

“Sun’s out, morning.” 

With that, Bucky turns over, away from Steve and throws the quilt over his head. 

Steve huffs, sneering at Bucky’s covered back before looking to the window, figuring that since he isn’t going to be able to fall back to sleep, he might as well watch for the sun to come out. 

When Bucky wakes up that morning and goes to the kitchen, he’s at first a little bemused to find that Steve’s already awake. 

To make matters stranger, he’s making breakfast. And he’s smiling. 

Steve never smiles in the morning. 

“Morning!” Steve grins, pushing sizzling eggs around the tiny cast iron pan. 

“Hi?” Bucky returns carefully, slowly sitting down in his chair at the table while eyeing Steve. 

“Hope you’re hungry,” Steve says while plating the eggs. 

A bit slides off his plate and hits the floor. 

Steve doesn’t even notice as he walks the plate to the table. 

Steve slides Bucky the plate of eggs, staring at his face intently until the plate bumps his forearm. 

“Thanks,” Bucky grumbles, picking up his fork and stabbing a bite of eggs. He raises it to his open mouth but stops as he feels a pair of eyes staring at him. 

Slowly, he drags his eyes from the fork to Steve. 

Steve blinks from where he’s standing a foot away from Bucky. He bounces on the soles of his feet as he stands there staring at him expectantly. His lips quirk into an innocent smile, but Bucky already knows what’s about to happen. 

Bucky groans, throwing his head back just before Steve starts his onslaught of questions. 

“So was it the eye thing?” Steve asks, folding his arms on the table to lean closer to Bucky. “Or was it just because you made a deal? Or did it bite you? I heard that you can turn into one if they bite you.” 

“Well, I don’t know who told you  _ that _ , but if they bite you, you’re dead,” Bucky explains, then sticks the fork in his mouth to finally eat his eggs. He chews roughly and swallows before saying, “It was the eye thing.” 

Steve scoffs, plopping down in the chair across from Bucky. He crosses his arms and asks, “If it’s that easy, then why doesn’t everyone do it?” 

“You’re not supposed to,” Bucky emphasizes, scooping more eggs into his mouth. He continues with his mouth full. “Most people don’t even know about it. I didn’t. But when it was chasing me, someone called out behind it and when I turned around I just—” 

He shrugs and swallows his food. 

“I don’t know, I just kept staring. It was staring me down, so I stared back, and all of a sudden I felt real sick, and I—I don’t know, I guess I passed out?” he shrugs like that was a normal statement and takes another bite of food. 

Steve gives him a dumbfounded look, fish-mouthed, and eyes narrowed. 

“You guess?” he spits, completely confused. “What did the hound do? Why didn’t it kill you?” 

Bucky shrugs. “It just stared back. It didn’t look happy about it, but that’s what it did.” 

“But then who yelled—”

“Steve,” Bucky snaps, dropping his fork on his plate which lands with a sharp clank. “This was years ago. I don’t remember everything.” 

“Okay!” Steve folds, defensively raising his hands. “I was just asking.” 

But Steve keeps asking questions all day, following Bucky from task to task like a gnat that won’t die. 

“Are you bloodthirsty?” 

“No? I’m not a vampire, Steve.” 

“What’s hell like?” 

“I’ve never been.” 

“What do you look like, you know, when you shift?” 

“Ugly, I’m sure. I don’t exactly look in a mirror.” 

“Do you really need to tear people apart?” 

“I never have.” 

“But what if they make a deal?” 

That makes Bucky strangely quiet. 

His fingers pause from where they’re stitching up a rip in one of his shirts. He looks up, eyes glassy as he lulls his head from side to side. 

“The thing is,” he stops and looks back at his hands. “Well, the thing is I don’t remember much when I’m like that.” 

Bucky huffs, annoyed with his answer, and re-explains with, “I mean I do, it’s still me, but it’s like a primal part of me that shouldn’t be there. So I guess I try to forget.” 

“So you’re saying you have?” Steve asks. 

“I’m saying I don’t know,” Bucky clarifies, tone impatient. 

With that, Bucky goes back to his stitching.

Steve hums and goes back to his book. 

And they both stay quiet for a while. 

When Steve sits at the table, chewing at the eraser of an old pencil he found in Bucky’s junk drawer and staring at the faceless figure he doodled, another thought occurs to him. 

He stops chewing and glances out the window. 

There, in the deep, cold woods, plays out the story of a little girl lost in the woods, before a monster creeps up behind her and ruins her life and legacy in a matter of seconds.

Steve shudders and turns away from the window. 

He doesn’t like that thought at all. 

Bucky’s chopping wood just before twilight. 

Steve sits on the stump not far from him. 

Steve’s staring at Bucky’s face, sharp cheekbones, and sharper eyes. There’s dirt on his forehead and sweat down his temples, and Steve still thinks he’s the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

Even now that Steve knows the truth, and when he should be running for the hills and praying to his mother for guidance, Bucky’s still beautiful. 

“Hey, Buck?” he calls. 

“Yeah?” Bucky calls back, labored breathing heavy in his voice. 

“Why’d you do it?” 

Bucky stops swinging mid-air. He lets his arm down and the ax hangs limply at his side. 

“You mean make a deal?” he asks. 

Steve nods quickly, like a bobblehead. 

He knows it couldn’t have been for fame or wealth. Beauty maybe, or solitude. But everything in Bucky’s life seems so dull, and he doesn’t seem like someone who would give his soul away. 

Bucky takes a deep, contemplating breath. He slowly brushes the back of his hand against his forehead to wipe off the sweat. 

“It’s a long story,” he decides, brushing it off like it’s nothing more than a silly happening of his childhood before he resumes chopping the wood. 

Steve nods, pressing his tongue against his cheek to remind himself not to push the topic. However, Steve just can’t help himself sometimes. 

“But don’t you regret it?” Steve blurts. “Like, don’t you ever get lonely?” 

Bucky shrugs casually, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Too late now, isn’t it?” he jokes before swinging the ax and chopping it through the wood. 

At sunset, when Bucky’s taking a break from his chores by sitting on the steps of the porch, staring calmly out to the tranquil forest, Steve works up the nerve to ask another question. 

The world is cast in soft blue. The dark green of the forest turns black against the growing darkness of the sky. The soft push and pull of the trees goes against the tension they both feel at night. 

Steve stands beside Bucky, resting his arms on the railing and leaning his chin on his forearms. 

“Were you the one my mom saw in the woods?” he asks. 

Bucky slowly turns to Steve, brow furrowed and head tilted. 

“Huh?” 

Steve rolls his eyes and pushes away from the railing. He turns to Bucky and explains, “My mom claims that she saw a hellhound in the woods when she was little. That’s what made her so paranoid. So I gotta ask, was it you?” 

Bucky quirks his eyebrows as his face falls back to its normal expression. 

“Yeah, I think I was,” he answers coolly. “If it was your ma, she was a little thing. Was sobbing and her knees were bleeding because she tripped. I was trying to guide her back home, but she ran off as soon as she heard me.” 

“What?” Steve sputters in disbelief. “You were trying to help her?” 

Bucky shrugs awkwardly. 

“Sure,” he says. “That’s what hellhounds do, you know. We’re more like guard dogs than anything. Except when someone makes a deal. Most of us don’t kill for no reason.” 

“Sure, but I didn’t think you guys needed to protect anything but monsters,” Steve retaliates, crossing his arms as he waits for Bucky to explain. 

Bucky chuckles humorlessly and mutters, “Well, sorry for trying to help my damned soul. Didn’t think it would hurt anyone if I helped a lost little girl out of the woods. I didn’t turn much after that, if that helps.” 

Steve turns back to the woods, grinding his teeth as he thinks. 

He should be mad at Bucky. He ruined his life in a matter of seconds, years before Steve was even born. 

If Ma hadn’t run into him in the woods, then maybe she would’ve been normal. And if she would’ve been normal, then people in town wouldn’t have been so mean and Steve would’ve had some friends and maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess. 

But as his head starts to clear, he realizes that she just wouldn’t have been Ma if she was normal. And if she was normal, then he might not have been good friends with Sam and he might not have met Peggy or moved to the city and he definitely wouldn’t be hiding out in the woods with Bucky. 

He wouldn’t even know Bucky. 

In the end, Steve can’t find it in him to be mad because Bucky’s done more for him in these months than most have done for him his whole life. 

When they’re playing poker that night under the dim orange light from the antique lamp, Bucky draws a card and says, “I don’t mind it, you know.” 

Steve looks up from his shitty hand, eyebrows to his hairline when he asks, “You don’t?” 

Bucky purses his lips and shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says, “I don’t turn often. And it’s not so bad to be alone.” 

Steve nods and looks back down at his cards. Instead of drawing a new one like he’s supposed to, he churns a question over in his head. 

He twists his lips, looks up, and asks, “Do you ever miss your mother?” 

Bucky doesn’t respond to that. 

His face, dimly lit by the light, doesn’t change. But his movements are tight when he puts his hand face-up on the table and pushes his chair back. 

“I fold,” he says, voice calm before he goes to the bedroom and closes the door. 

Steve goes to the room an hour later, head hanging like a kicked dog, as he mutters, “I’m sorry.” 

Bucky waves him off and gives him a firm kiss on the forehead to show that he isn’t angry, but it’s awkward and clumsy and rough enough that it makes Steve wince. 

It’s the middle of the night. They’re both pretending to be asleep. 

The moon is tiny tonight, a barely-there sliver in the sky. It leaves the room pitch black.

Even though Steve’s eyes have adjusted to the darkness, everything around him is nothing but haunting outlines. 

Bucky’s laying on his back beside him, arms crossed over his chest. 

There’s no noise but the rustle of the leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl. 

The hound hasn’t stopped by tonight, leaving the room uncomfortably silent. 

“I’ve been so alone out here, Stevie,” Bucky whispers in the dark. “It’s been so lonely.” 

“We need food,” Bucky emphasizes as he pushes Steve out the door. He grabs Steve’s keys and wallet off the coffee table and presses them into Steve’s chest. 

That morning, to make things less tense, Steve had gone back to pestering Bucky about every little detail about hellhounds, and Bucky reached the brink when Steve started asking about what it felt like to have a tail. 

“But I was just asking—” Steve tries to justify, planting his feet onto the floor. 

“Goooo,” Bucky groans as he gives Steve one final push. 

Steve stumbles over the salt line and onto the porch. 

He attempts to jump around and rush back in before Bucky can close the door, but the door slams in his face just as he turns. 

Steve huffs and crosses his arms. 

“Jerk,” he grumbles before turning on his heels and heading to his car. 

Running on autopilot, he drives through the forest, past the crossroads, and to Mr. Phillips’ store before he realizes that he probably shouldn’t be there. 

The parking lot’s half full, but the caution tape is gone and so are the officers. 

There’s a weird energy, and it seems to flow from the giant memorial poster hanging in front of the store. 

_ “Rest In Peace, Mr. Phillips.”  _ it reads in giant letters of red, white, and blue. Below it is a headshot of Mr. Phillips in his late twenties, wearing his military uniform. 

A group of weary women stands beside it, laying flowers below his frowning face. 

Steve tensely exits his car and walks into the store with his head down, making a point not to look at the sad women. 

He walks through the entrance and comes to a stop. 

A large, pink stain greets him on the linoleum tile. People walk around it, refusing to pay attention to its haunting look as they pass. 

To Steve, it’s a pool of blood, hot and fresh and dark. The light reflects off it, making the blood glow as he tracks it with his eyes and sees it dragged out the door. 

He feels the icy pool in his stomach. He smells the rotten air. He feels the hound huff and breathe against the back of his neck. He hears it curl its slimy lip and let out a deep, guttural growl. 

Someone clears their throat behind him, and he jumps, turning around to see an annoyed woman who can’t seem to walk around him. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and steps to the side. 

She huffs and walks into the store, and Steve follows suit, glancing once more at the ground where it’s just a pink stain again. 

He grabs a handbasket and walks to the canned food section, mentally going through a list of things he needs to buy. 

His shoes squeak on the overly polished tiles. It seems that they’ve been scrubbed clean since the incident. 

“Can you believe they never found out what happened?” someone whispers an aisle over. “Tragic, really.” 

“Here I was thinking Rumlow was on a winning streak,” another mutters back. 

Steve rolls his eyes and walks until he finds the canned beans. 

While he’s comparing prices of different brands of pinto beans, he hears another pair of squeaky shoes walk up the aisle. 

The sound is accompanied by a sharp stench of rotten trash and vinegar. 

Steve subconsciously turns, nose scrunched at the bitter smell. When he sees who’s approaching him, he stumbles backward. 

Agent Barton, the one interrogating Steve at the crime scene and one half of the new and weird couple in town, is walking right to him. 

“Shit,” Steve squeaks as he steps away from the beans. 

Steve pivots and rushes down the other way. When he exits the aisle, he turns and almost smacks right into a redheaded woman. 

Natasha steps back calmly and smiles. She begins to raise her hand to wave, but Steve immediately turns and hustles the other way. 

Agent Barton pops out from the aisle, trapping him. 

Steve’s shoes shriek as he twists and ducks under Agent Barton’s arm, dropping his basket and sprinting toward the sliding door. 

“You’re just gonna leave that there for me to take care of?” Mrs. Phillips yells from behind her cash register. 

Steve ignores her, and bolts out of the store to his car. 

He weaves through two sets of families heading in to do their weekend shopping. They send him disgruntled looks, but none of them looked shocked by his frantic behavior. It is the Doggy Rogers, after all. He and his ma were always odd. 

Steve manually unlocks his car and scrambles to get inside, slamming the door soundly behind him. 

He looks back at the store only to see the couple rush out, too. 

Natasha points Steve out to Agent Barton, but instead of charging his car, they go to their own. 

“Shit!” Steve curses and jams his key into the ignition. 

Knowing that going to Bucky’s cabin will just entice them to follow him and then they’d be cornered in the middle of the woods and Bucky wouldn’t be prepared to face two hounds, Steve decides to drive to Sam’s. 

There, they can call the cops and lock the doors and since it’s probably crowded, the couple won’t be able to get away with killing him. 

Steve floors it and drives recklessly downtown. 

The couple stays hot on his trail. 

Steve swerves into the parking lot closest to the bar, and his heart drops as the couple turns in, too. 

He hops out of his car, basically running out of the lot to the sidewalk. He looks over his shoulder to see the couple hop out of their car and beeline right toward him. 

He gulps and turns forward, stumbling out into the semi-crowded sidewalk. 

It’s lively today. Since it’s Saturday, people have taken to exploring the shops and grabbing food at local restaurants. There’s an exciting buzz in the air, but Steve can only feel freezing cold terror work its way through his veins. 

It reminds him of his childhood winters when he shoveled snow that went to his chest away from their house. His nose and fingers and toes would go numb but his stomach churned with an icy burn as Ma cried for him to hurry before the sun went down. 

Steve picks up the pace, his feet stinging from how they slam on the concrete. He turns over his shoulder to see the couple getting closer. 

There’s a glint in Natasha’s eyes. Her confidence flows through the air like electricity. 

She gains speed, a cheetah closing in on its prey. 

Agent Barton, though a little flustered, huffs and moves faster to keep up with her. 

“Shit,” Steve squeaks once more, turning back around as he pushes forward. 

The streets are full, but no one notices. He’s panicking, but no one cares. 

He shoulders through a small group, and a man turns and yells, “Watch it, Doggy!” but he barely hears him over the pounding of his heart. 

Figuring it isn’t going to cause him further harm, Steve gives in and pulls his phone from his pocket.

His hands are shaking. There’s sweat pooled on his palms. His phone slips through his fingers, but he snatches it before it falls and shatters on the concrete sidewalk. 

He turns around. 

Natasha’s sneering grin has grown while her distance has shrunk. 

Agent Barton’s not with her anymore. 

Steve wheezes and turns around. His chest is constricting. He can’t feel his fingers as he shakingly goes to his address book and pulls up Brock’s number and clicks call. 

He presses the phone against his ear. 

His heart beats louder with every long ring. 

He turns around. 

Through the crowded sidewalk, Natasha smiles. Raising her hand, she bends each of her fingers like they’re all offering Steve a tiny bow. 

The line picks up on the fourth ring. 

Steve turns around. 

_ “Rumlow,” _ Brock answers. 

“Brock!” Steve wheezes, “Look, that weird couple everyone’s been freaked out about have been following me from the grocery store and I can’t shake them.” 

_ “Who is this?”  _ Brock drones, though his tone is light with curiosity. 

“It’s Steve Rogers!” Steve snaps back, taking a deep breath to try to fill his lungs. 

_ “Doggy?” _ Brock asks,  _ “Who the hell gave you my number?” _

“Sam did! Look, I don’t have time to explain. They’re getting closer—”

_ “Goddamn Wilson’s always handing out my number like it’s food stamps,”  _ Brock grumbles. Then he sighs, obviously annoyed with the conversation, and asks,  _ “So is there like a reason you called me?”  _

“Yes!” Steve yells. 

A group of older women out for their afternoon walk jump at his tone. 

“Watch it, young man,” one of them scolds. “Not everyone was raised by wolves.” 

Steve rolls his eyes instead of answering her. 

He goes back to his phone call, explaining, “I told you that the couple that lives in the woods have been following me, so if you could  _ please  _ use your resources and help me out for  _ once— _ ”

_ “Look, I don’t have time for your nonsense, Doggy,” _ Brock interrupts.  _ “You can get the cops when you have a real emergency.”  _

With that, he hangs up with a resounding click. 

Steve wants to cry. He wants to scream. He wants to throw his phone down on the ground and stomp on it until it’s nothing but a pile of glass and plastic. 

But before he can get the chance to do any of those, someone grabs his arm in a numbing grip and pulls him into an alleyway. 

He yelps, ready to scream out when he’s shoved against a brick wall and a hand is pressed against his mouth. 

Natasha’s face takes up his sight. Her eyes are dark and mean, but her smile is sickly sweet. 

He turns to the mouth of the alley, trying to locate the fastest exit, but Agent Barton is standing there, blocking it.

He’s not as threatening as she is. His chest is heaving and his face is flushed, but he keeps his mouth closed so he doesn’t sound winded. 

Steve looks back at Natasha, who never took her eyes away from him. 

“Hey, Doggy,” she smirks, tilting her head to purr, “I’ve got so many questions for you.” 


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Natasha drops her sly smile. 

Her perfectly pink lips curl into a sneer as she shoves Steve’s shoulders harshly against the brick wall behind him. 

Her eye pedant stares at Steve from where it’s dangling away from her neck. Giant, blue, and haunting. It’s slanted like it’s glaring at him, too. 

Steve breathes through his mouth, trying to not smell her horrible body odor. Only they both smell so strong that it feels as though he’s washed his mouth out with vinegar. 

“What do you want?” he demands between gasps, trying to thrash his way out of her hold. 

She brings him forward and pushes him against the wall again, knocking the air out of him. 

Agent Barton sounds asthmatic himself by the way he’s gasping for breath at the mouth of the alley. 

He bends over, putting his hands on his knees as he wheezes, “Jesus, Nat, you made it sound like this was gonna be  _ easy _ .” 

“This was easy, Clint,” she snaps back, before turning her head sharply toward him, “you’re just lazy.” 

Clint shoots up at that, defensively, yet still out-of-breath, yelling, “ _ Lazy _ ? Who was the one who went and got a fake FBI badge and went around for  _ days  _ doing some ‘investigation’ with the cops? Just to find him!” He jabs a finger toward Steve and continues yelling, “And you know I hate cops!” 

Natasha rolls her eyes and looks back at Steve. 

“You see what I put up with?” she asks as if they’re friends. 

Steve glares at her, wheezing in lieu of responding. He’s trying to catch his breath before his esophagus squeezes down to the size of a coffee stirrer. 

Natasha huffs in annoyance before taking one hand off of Steve’s shoulder and reaching into her pocket. She pulls out Steve’s red and dinged up inhaler and presses it into his hand. 

Steve’s forehead crumbles before he shakes it and puts it into his mouth, pressing the button to realize the bitter-tasting medicine. 

Thankfully, he’s able to catch his breath quickly, so he asks, “When the hell did you take that?”

Natasha shrugs and says, “I’ll tell you if you tell me where your little friend is staying.” 

Steve falters, blinking at her as his mind starts turning.

Why the hell would she ask that if she already knew? After all, they’re the ones who’ve been taunting Steve since he moved back to Canton. 

Steve scoffs unconvincingly and claims, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You don’t?” Natasha asks, tone high and mocking. “That’s funny. I seem to remember you getting put into a car with a large man one night. You didn’t seem too happy about it either.”

“What?” Steve spits, shaking his head. “That wasn’t—how do you even—?” Steve sputters before he snarls and thrashes around to break her grip.

It doesn’t work. She just sighs like an annoyed mother and leans her weight against her hands, pinning him harder against the alley wall. 

“Well, if you saw that, then why didn’t you just follow us and find out for yourself where we were?” Steve snarks, trying to shove her away again.

She doesn’t budge. 

“We tried, but we lost you when that guy turned into the forest,” Clint answers. 

Natasha snaps her head toward him and barks, “Clint!” 

Clint lifts his hands and asks, “What? It’s not my fault he decided to take him at night. It was dark! We would’ve hit a tree!” 

“Look,” she seethes, turning back to Steve with her teeth bared like a rabid animal, “we know you’re not  _ like  _ him, so why the hell have you been camping out with him for so long? What’s he doing to you? We can help—” 

Without thinking, Steve brings his foot back and kicks Natasha’s shin as hard as he can from his awkward angle. 

She yelps as her knees buckle and she bends forward. 

Steve takes this opportunity to shove her back and pivot out of her arm’s reach. 

She stumbles backward, but reaches out to the brick wall behind her and catches herself before she can fall. 

“Hey!” Clint yells, stepping forward to intervene until Natasha lifts up a hand to stop him. 

She looks up sharply, flicking her hair out of her face as she glowers at Steve. 

“You little shit,” she snarls as she straightens up fully. “We’re trying to help you!” 

“Why are you acting like you don’t know?” Steve argues, seething as he continues, “I know you’ve seen the cabin. I’ve  _ seen  _ you see the cabin!” 

He looks wildly at the two of them, back and forth like a gazelle caught between two drooling lions. 

He stumbles back, trying to create distance from himself and the two of them before waving his arm and insisting, “Neither of you wants to help me! I don’t even know who the hell you two are! And I don’t want to know how you know who I am and why you’ve decided to mess with me if it has to do with anything this town has told you.” 

He takes a deep, controlled breath and steadily turns his gaze from Natasha to Clint, assessing them now like another lion, moving in to challenge them for their territory. 

Natasha’s glare is still dark, but not as intense as it was a few moments ago. 

Clint’s staring at Steve with bugged eyes. He swallows a few times and looks toward Natasha, waiting for her move before he figures out what to do. 

Steve stares at them both again, one by one, dead in the eyes. 

Clint looks away first, quickly looking down at the floor. 

When Steve slides his eyes to Natasha. 

She holds on for a little longer. 

Her eyes burn with as much anger as Steve’s, but her fire is just beginning. His has been stirring for years, and the fire is so hot that Steve knows what Hell must feel like. 

But Natasha doesn’t lose without a fight. She stares for long, stretched out minutes. 

Clint clears his throat, awkwardly trying to diffuse the situation. 

Neither Steve nor Natasha quit. 

Until, finally, Natasha huffs and curls her lip, shaking her head as she turns to look at the alley wall. 

Steve smirks, victory flowing like gold sparks through his fire. 

He straightens up and lifts one finger, pointing at Natasha as a warning and says, “I don’t know you, but I can promise you this: try this shit again and Bucky and I  _ will  _ find a way to get rid of both of you. Weird hellhound pact or not. Because I.”

He steps forward, “Hate.” 

He takes another step, looking Natasha dead in the eye. He presses his finger hard into her shoulder and hisses, “Bullies.” 

She scoffs and crosses her arms. 

“Are you done?” she drones. 

Steve doesn’t answer. He turns on his heel and begins walking toward the mouth of the alley. 

Natasha’s arm snaps out and she grabs his bicep like a viper. 

Steve stumbles, startled by the sudden movement. He tries to not show his panic as he whips his head around to come face to face with a very angry Natasha. 

“Let him go, Nat,” Clint sighs, tone defeated. “It’s not worth it. Not right now.” 

Natasha looks at Clint, eyes as wild as Steve’s once were, before her nostrils flare and her lips press so hard together they turn white. 

Like a snake forced to release its prey, she lets go of Steve’s arm. 

Steve hurries away at this opportunity, quickly vanishing from the alley as fast as his scrawny, out-of-shape body lets him. 

After he’s gone, Clint slowly walks to the entrance of the alley and leans against the wall. 

“Guess we’ll just have to go back out to the woods,” he sighs, already dreading the feeling of sticks stuck to his socks and dirt filling his nose. “You think we can buy that bug repellent again?” 

Natasha comes up beside him, crossing her arms as she leans forward to look out to the street. 

“You heard him, right?” Natasha asks, staring at Steve as he weaves his way through the crowded sidewalk. “I don’t think he has a clue what’s going on.” 

Steve storms through the doorway of Bucky’s cabin not even a half-hour later. 

Bucky glances up from the couch where he’s cleaning his shotgun. 

He raises an inquisitive eyebrow and asks, “Where’s the food?” 

“We’ll get it on the way,” Steve says, words slamming together from how quick he’s speaking. 

Bucky furrows his brows and slowly leans back against the couch, “And where are we going?” 

Steve rushes around the living room, ducking to look under surfaces for Madame Liberty. 

He doesn’t answer Bucky. Instead, he says, “That couple cornered me. The hellhound couple.” 

“What?” Bucky asks, pushing his gun off his lap as he leaps up from the couch. “Where? What did they say? What did they do?” 

He grabs Steve’s hands and begins to check him for bruises or bites or God knows what. 

Steve growls and pulls his hands away. He pivots around and looks beneath the table, growling again when he sees that Madame Liberty isn’t there. 

“They grabbed me near Sam’s place. They wanted to know where you live, Buck. And...” Steve snarls, pressing his hand against his forehead as if that will jog his memory, “God, I wish I knew what else they said to me but they smelled so bad it was hard to concentrate on anything else.” 

He shoulders past Bucky and goes on his hands and knees to peer under the couch. 

“That and they wear those stupid eye necklaces. It’s like I can’t go two seconds without something staring at me,” he pushes himself up and shudders. “It’s weird.” 

He gets up and starts toward his and Bucky’s room, asking over his shoulder, “Have you seen Liberty? When I find her, I’ll start packing and we’ll go.” 

Bucky doesn’t answer. Instead, he tilts his head and gazes off to the side, his tongue pushing against his cheek as if he’s pondering something. 

Finally, he looks back at Steve with clear eyes. 

“We’re not leaving,” Bucky states finitely, walking back to the couch, picking up his gun, and continuing to clean it as if nothing is happening. 

Steve groans, throwing his head back in frustration before turning his glare to Bucky. 

“Look, I appreciate your hospitality or whatever and I know you want to get this thing out of Canton, but we have to go,” Steve insists, as he starts rushing around the cabin and grabbing random items of clothing so he can put them in his duffle. “I’ll pack. You find Liberty.” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, watching Steve in vague amusement as he zooms around the room. 

“We can go to the city,” Steve continues, “Peggy’s let me keep boys in the apartment before. I’m sure we can come up with some story on our way there.” 

“Steve,” Bucky tries again. 

“If they try to follow us, I’ll kill them myself, Buck, I swear to God. They chose the wrong son of a bitch to mess with.” 

“Steve!” Bucky yells, his patience running out. 

Steve jumps, coming to a complete stop with fistfuls of t-shirts and underwear and a blanket haphazardly thrown over his neck. 

Bucky takes a deep breath and holds up his hand, calmly stating, “I don’t think these two are hellhounds.” 

Steve’s head tilts and his brow furrows. 

“What?” 

“Well,  _ if  _ one of them is a hound, why would they stop you in broad daylight and not kill you? Clearly, that’s what this one wants to do. And hellhounds don’t travel in packs, and we’ve only seen the one.  _ And _ hounds don’t need to wear warding symbols,” Bucky huffs, looking around the room as if it had the answers. 

He spots his collage on the back wall, with the red string connecting creatures to states, and suddenly Bucky’s eyes clear. 

“No,” he mumbles, “they’re not hounds at all.”

He walks up to the collage and analyzes it carefully. His eyes dart from picture to picture and map to map. 

“Buck, what’s going on?” Steve asks, voice tight. He’s beginning to worry more than he was before, because if they aren’t hounds, then who the hell is? And how does the couple fit into this whole thing?

“They’re not hounds. Neither one of them is,” Bucky states. 

“But—” Steve shakes his head in confusion and denial, “But they smell.” 

Bucky shrugs, “Lots of people smell.” 

“People started disappearing right after they came to town!” Steve insists.

“Or,” Bucky starts, holding a finger up, “right  _ before _ .” 

He turns back to the collage and stares at it intently. 

“They’re not hounds, but I bet they can figure out who is,” Bucky notes, tapping his finger against the picture of the hellhound before turning to Steve, “but first, we have to get them off your trail.” 

So, Bucky comes up with a plan. 

After he checks the house and makes sure there are enough supplies and salt stored in the cabin for Steve to be safe, Bucky decides that he needs to turn tonight. 

He’ll need to do this to get their attention. He’ll run out deep into the woods far away from the cabin, leaving charred prints across the grass-covered ground, and the smell of death ripe in the air. 

If they are what Bucky thinks they are—and what they are, he has yet to tell Steve—then they’ll find him in no time. 

In the meantime, Steve will stay in the cabin with the doors and windows locked and a gun with rock salt gripped in his hands. 

There’ll be salt all over the floor and warding symbols drawn on every wall. 

Steve will wait until the morning when the sun is bright in the sky. Then, he’ll run out to Sam’s bar, because when the couple isn’t able to get Bucky, they’ll be frustrated and search for Steve at the one place they know he’ll go. 

When they find him at the bar, Steve will stall until dusk. Then, he’ll lead them back to Bucky’s cabin, where Bucky will be waiting. Steve and Bucky will tell them about the real hound and together, they’ll find a way to rid themselves of it once and for all. 

And the plan should go without a hitch if, of course, they don’t kill Bucky when he goes out tonight. 

“So that’s what I’m supposed to do, then?” Steve growls, “Sit here all night when they might kill you and hope that they won’t?” 

“Yup,” Bucky responds, pouring more salt by the entryway. 

“No!” Steve snaps as he marches over to Bucky. “I’m not just gonna sit here and wait for something to happen. I’m going with you!” 

“Steve,” Bucky hisses, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “This is only going to work if you stay here. And I don’t want you to see me like that.” 

“I can handle it!” 

“But what if I can’t?!” Bucky snaps back, shooting a fierce look at Steve that immediately shuts him up. Bucky looks away, taking a quick breath to calm himself down before he looks back at Steve. “I can’t always control what I do when I’m like that and I really don’t want to do something that will—”

Bucky stops, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s in pain. He takes a deep, controlled breath before slowly exhaling and opening his eyes. 

“Look, I need to get ready,” he says, his shoulders stiff and back rigid. “I haven’t shifted for a while. It’s not easy.” 

He looks around the room, working his jaw back and forth. 

“It hurts, a lot,” he explains, looking anywhere but Steve. “It’ll take a lot for me to do it and I really,  _ really  _ don’t want you to see me like that.” 

“Alright, alright. Fine,” Steve relents, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I won’t go.” 

“Thank you,” Bucky sighs and checks the salt one last time. 

When he’s satisfied with how it looks, he stands up and brushes his hands off. 

“So,” he starts, rubbing his hands together. 

“So,” Steve repeats, looking at him expectantly. 

Bucky looks out the window and shrugs. “I guess I got an hour or so before dark. Don’t have to leave yet.” 

“Really?” Steve asks, tone rising with a hint of hopefulness. 

Bucky shrugs again. “Guess we could do something to pass the time. Play cards or something.” 

But he’s nearly thrown off balance when Steve grabs his face and pulls him in, kissing him with as much force as he can muster. 

Bucky grunts in surprise, his lips stiff until he processes what happened and he starts kissing Steve just the same. 

They kiss and kiss, worries lost in the fog of their minds until Steve breaks away to catch his breath and Bucky starts pressing soft, wet kisses down his neck. 

Steve weaves his fingers through Bucky’s hair, closes his eyes, and sighs. He tilts his head to give Bucky more room and smiles when he hits a ticklish spot. 

Bucky pulls away for a moment, catching his breath as he reiterates, “Got plenty of time. Time to do anything.” 

Steve nods fervently and reels Bucky back in to kiss him with as much strength as before. 

He jumps up and wraps his legs around Bucky’s thick waist, and Bucky supports his weight without a hitch as he carries him off to the bedroom. 

It’s far past sundown when Bucky tells Steve that he has to leave. 

They walk out to the front room, clothes ruffled, hair mussed, and cheeks red. 

Before Bucky leaves, he pulls Steve in by his wrist and presses a soft kiss on his forehead. 

“Lock all the latches on the door after I leave,” he whispers against Steve’s skin. 

He gives Steve’s wrist one last squeeze before turning and heading to the door. 

He doesn’t turn to look at Steve again, nor does he throw on his coat or his hat as he walks outside and closes the door firmly behind him. 

And Steve’s left in silence with nothing but the sound of Bucky’s feet running out into the woods. Eventually, that’s gone, too. 

And now Bucky’s out there, and Steve’s in here, sitting like a duck and just waiting for something to happen. 

“Fuck this,” Steve hisses to himself, marching forward and grabbing his keys off the kitchen counter. 

If Bucky is going to risk his life tonight, then Steve sure as hell isn’t just going to sit here and let that happen. 

Sam will believe him, he has to. He’s Steve’s only choice because Peggy’s too far away and out of the loop to convince. 

Steve decides that he’s going to drive to the Falcon’s Beak and tell Sam everything and they’ll come up with a plan together on how to save Bucky by convincing the couple to join their side. 

Before he leaves, Steve strategically puts his keys between his fingers, gripping them tightly between his knuckles. Three makeshift little knives. 

He put on a brave face earlier when it was just Natasha and Clint. But now that he’s alone and the sun’s gone away, he can’t shake the feeling that the beast won’t resign itself to growling outside of the door. 

Especially now that he doesn’t have his own hellhound to save him. 

Steve shakes his arms, cracks his knobby neck, and takes stiff steps to the door. 

He reaches it and stops. 

He can hear Madame Liberty purring on the couch, the lightbulb flickering in the lamp on the corner table, the drip from the leaky faucet in the kitchen. 

Steve takes a deep inhale and holds it. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and grips the doorknob with all his might. 

Finally, he exhales, opens his eyes, and turns the knob. 

“I’ll be back, Liberty!” he calls, voice shaky as he rushes outside and slams the door shut behind him. 

The night swallows him.

The world is encased in silence. There’s no hoot of an owl or rustle of pine. 

Everything is eerily still. 

Steve takes a deep breath again just to hear something. 

The air is still, but it holds a sharp chill. 

Steve shivers and rubs his hands on his arms, feebly trying to warm himself up. He doesn’t have the time nor the heart to turn around and get a coat. 

He looks to the left, and then to the right. 

Figures slowly start to carve their image out of the darkness. He can see the outlines of treetops and the railing that goes to the porch stairs.

To Steve’s right, a twig snaps like a shotgun. 

Ignoring the sour that’s risen in his stomach, Steve takes his chances and bolts down the porch and to his car. 

He unlocks it with shaky hands and thankfully manages to not drop his keys. He scrambles into his seat, throws on his seatbelt, and puts the keys into the ignition. 

The engine chugs and then stops. 

He twists the keys again, harder this time, but it chugs and stops again. 

“Not now. Not fucking now,” Steve prays, taking a deep breath before he tries it again. 

It chugs before finally, the engine catches and comes to life. 

Steve exhales, dropping his head against the headrest in relief. 

Suddenly, snarling barks burst beside Steve’s left ear as the hound tries to break through his window. He can hear its sharp, phlegmy teeth chomping as its giant, smoking paws pound against the window and crack the glass. 

“Shit!” Steve screams before he floors it. 

The tires shriek as they kick up dirt and grass and his car zooms down the overgrown road, overcome with trees and stumps and animal burrows.

The car swerves left and right, fishtailing as Steve tries to correct it and save himself from crashing into a tree. 

Only he never turned his headlights on, and he’s only driven out of here during the day. 

And now that it’s night and he has adrenaline pumping so thick through his veins it makes his chest ache and limbs burn and he can’t seem to gain control of his car, he doesn’t notice a tree getting closer until—

**_Crash._ **

Steve lurches, head going forward and smacking against the steering wheel while the rest of his body is caught by his seat belt and pulled in the other direction. 

Shards of glass fly around him like confetti as his car rises upward and falls down again. Its metal whines and grinds until the car finally stills. 

The world buzzes a sharp song, ringing through Steve’s ears so loudly that he can’t hear the blare of his car horn bursting the calm air of the woods. 

Under the buzz is the heavy glug and thump of his heart. 

_ Glug thump.  _

_ Glug thump.  _

Steve groans. He slowly blinks his eyes open and finds blood dripping down from his forehead. 

He flinches when it gets into his eyes. He sits back to rub it out of his eyes, but the sudden movement causes a sharp pain to zip from the base of his neck to the center of his forehead. 

“Shit,” he groans again, both in pain and frustration. 

He unclips his seatbelt and bodily pushes his door open. He stumbles out into the disturbed woods. 

His head throbs and feels as though it’s splitting in two with every beat. 

Steve moans and grabs his head with both hands as if the pressure will keep his brain together. 

When his head stops thumping and spinning, he glances at the tree he just ruined. 

The front bumper of his car is crushed in. The right headlight is smashed. There’s a tree branch lodged inside the windshield and stabbing into the passenger seat. 

Steve sighs and rests his hands against the hood of the car, staring dejectedly at the wreckage. 

“Fuck,” he says, simple and crude. 

Then, someone cackles behind him. 

Steve gasps and jumps around. 

There’s no one there except swaying bushes and tall pine trees. 

“Who’s there?” he yells out, voice so shaky he can’t recognize it as his own. 

The person laughs again, deep, husky, and mocking. 

Steve looks around, trying to find someone behind the bushes or standing next to a tree. 

“Who’s out here?” he yells again, frantic and terrified. 

The laughter grows louder as twigs snap and crack. 

“That mutt finally left you alone?” the voice mocks. 

Steve can’t see anyone through the dark. He can’t make anything out but trees, and bushes, and giant roots. 

Suddenly, the smell of rotten hamburger meat flood Steve’s nostrils. 

The laughter grows hoarser and more brass until suddenly it sounds like the person is growling. 

“Doggy Rogers. Doggy Rogers,” the person recites, a wicked chant. 

Steve turns and turns and turns, unable to find anything. 

“Show yourself!” he screams. 

He turns around once more and comes face to face with a bloody mouth, sunken skin, crazed and yellow-eyed man. 

Steve freezes, blue eyes wide in sheer terror as his limbs frost over. 

“Brock?” he hisses, name flicking off his tongue like acid. 

Rumlow tilts his head and grins, gore dripping from his teeth as he says, “Can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet, Doggy.” 

His smile drops and he bares his teeth as his neck moves inhumanely to the side. His bones snap and shift like a broken toy whose limbs were moved to impossible angles. 

Steve twists and sprints down the dark and overgrown road before he can watch Brock’s eyes turn blood red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's okay. you've made it to the end of the chapter. You and Steve are safe....for now.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh no,_ he thought, _that monster might become me._

Bucky was once young, foolish, and hungry. 

Born to a family of immigrants, his father from Ireland, and his mother Romania, there was seldom a night where he went to bed with a full stomach. It was the turn of the century, and no one wanted to hire an Irish man or his wife. 

Things only got worse for the Barneses after Pa died. 

Meals were few and far between. Their hair thinned, their stomachs ached, their hands and feet were always cold. 

Bucky worked when he could, but being young and foolish, he was rarely paid a fair amount, leaving his poor mother and baby sister hungry. Even as he got older, the situation hardly got better, and the food was never plenty. 

And Mama was superstitious. She’d tuck her children into bed and remind them of the horrors of witchcraft and the dangers of calling to Satan. 

“He has the most beautiful smile you’ll ever see,” Mama would whisper in the dark, stroking Becca’s hair or Bucky’s cheek. “But if you look close enough, you’ll see the tar dripping through his teeth.” 

She’d tell them every night not to go near him. Not to give in to his wicked ways. Not to go to the crossroads and bury a rosary and piece of your hair. 

“He will grant you your every wish,” she’d say. “But in exchange, he’ll take your soul and burn it for eternity.” 

Bucky wanted to listen to his mother, but the food was so scarce, and he was so hungry. 

When Bucky was twenty-two, he snuck out before his shift at the mine and went down the new road that stretched from his family’s cabin to the main road in town. 

He had his mother’s rosary beads in one hand, and a clump of his hair in the other. 

When he returned home, he was greeted by his enraged and terrified mother and a table full of food. 

The wood table, carved by Pa when he was a lad, was overfilled with tarts, and meats, and stewed vegetables, and pickled beets, and warm milk, and bowls filled to the brim with thick stew. 

“What did you do?” Mama shrieked, grabbing Bucky by his shirt collar and shaking him. Her blue eyes pierced into his, the wrinkled skin around her eyes gone taunt.

“What did you do, James?” she demanded. 

“Mama, please,” Becca begged softly, staring at the table with eyes as wide as dessert plates and a bit of drool on her chin. “Yell at him later.”

And though Mama was terrified, they ate like kings. They went to bed with full stomachs for the first night in their lives. 

And every night after that for five years. 

Until one day, when Bucky walked through the door, tired from a hard day's work and covered in dirt and soot, there was no food to be seen. 

He faltered, looking this way and that for a spot of food laying around. He checked the ice chest, the cupboards, under the table, and in the trash bin, but there was nothing left. 

“Mama?” he called, stumbling back to their bedroom. “Bec?” 

He pushed open the door and was met with three empty beds and an open window. 

He pivoted and ran out the front door and into the lifeless woods, screaming out for his family and praying that they were somewhere beyond the trees. 

But instead of seeing his mama’s wise eyes or his sister’s unruly dark hair, he was met with the smell of rotten meat. 

It was thick and musty, deep like carnage and hot like steam. 

Bucky gagged, covering his mouth with his shirt as he searched for the source of the smell. 

Then, he heard it. 

That phlegmy, wretched, stomach-churning growl that vibrated so close to his ear it burst his eardrum. 

Bucky doubled over, shrieking in pain and terror until suddenly— 

“Hey!” someone yelled, frantic enough to get his attention.

He turned around, hoping to find a hero, but instead, he saw the beast. 

Standing behind him was a hound taller than Bucky even on four legs. Its fur was built of smoke and its teeth were rotted and huge, the size of a child’s femur and sharpened to a point. The ground beneath it was on fire, and the smoke rose until it disappeared into the hound’s fur. 

But its eyes, oh its eyes, those were the worst of all. 

Red and oozy, like two gunshot wounds, but round like marbles. They were large and deep to the point where Bucky couldn’t tell where its lens began and the eye ended. 

The hound tilted its head downwards, lip curled, and a fat string of black drool dripped from its jowls until it reached the ground and burnt the grass beneath it. 

Its eyes never broke away from Bucky’s, and Bucky never looked away. 

He stared in horror, too afraid to turn away, until, suddenly, he felt faint. 

The beast lunged forward, and Bucky’s world slipped away from beneath him. 

He came to much later when the world was dark and the moon sat fat and round in the middle of the speckled sky. 

Bucky could barely see it, though. His vision was fuzzy and spotted and sweat dripped into his eyes. 

He groaned and tried to sit up, but his head felt like it was full of lead. A sharp pain that started at the nape of his neck and zapped up to his brain knocked him back down. 

His entire body felt like it was on fire, and his stomach was so raw and heavy he feared he’d vomit and never stop. 

His mouth was dry and frothy. 

He rolled over, spat, and then began to cry. 

“Don’t let me die while I’m like this, Mama,” he gasped through cracked lips, gripping a jagged tree root that he mistook for his mother’s fleshy wrist. 

There was something sharp tearing through his veins, like someone dragging a pushpin through every tiny vessel of his being. Every bone in his body felt like it had been snapped then fused together only to be snapped again. 

At that moment, he didn’t think he’d ever get warm. Terror curled through his belly and twisted up in knots. Below that grew a primal anger, the kind he had no control over. The kind that you don’t notice until it grows so hot your entire core catches on fire. That was the sharpness cutting through his veins. That was the monster breaking his bones. 

_ Oh no,  _ he thought,  _ that monster might become me.  _

He was scared. He wanted his mother. He wanted to see home again. 

His hands grew so hot they began singeing the ground beneath him, turning the beautiful green grass a terrible, charcoal black. 

“Don’t let me die like this. Just take us home, Mama, please. I’ll never do it again. I knew he was evil, but we were just so hungry,” he sobbed and pleaded, but she never brought him home. 

Instead, she left him there with his arms twisting and snapping and his spine rearranging and him shrieking until he had no voice left. 

Until those screams became howls. 

Until he couldn’t stop calling to the moon. 

Slender tree branches whip and scratch at Steve’s face as he sprints through the thick, dark forest. One hits him hard enough that it slices through his cheek, causing blood to trickle down and mix with the ooze coming from his forehead before it drips down his chin and onto his neck. 

He ducks under large branches, hops over fat roots, twists, and turns to try to find the best escape route in the dark. 

The only light he has comes from the moon, high and bright in the sky. It illuminates Steve’s path, making it a little easier to navigate the forest, but his heavy breathing is fogging up his glasses and his razor-sharp sense of fear makes him disoriented. 

His chest aches and stings, every inhale becoming harder than the last. He can feel his airway shrinking, his legs numbing, his heart  _ glug thumping _ so hard in his chest it feels like it might just explode, splattering his blood all over the forest floor before Brock would even get a chance. 

The sound of heavy paws galloping behind him gives Steve the push to run further, to keep going no matter how sore his lungs are and how hard it is to breathe. 

Just as he thinks he can see light coming from a street lamp by the main road, Steve’s foot catches on a tree root and sends him toppling down. 

He grunts as he hits the ground, cutting up his knees and palms as they collide against the rough forest floor. His glasses fly off his face and land somewhere in the piles of fallen leaves and kicked up dirt that surrounds him. 

Panicked, Steve frantically moves his hands around, blindly trying to locate his glasses. Adding his blurry vision to the already pitch-black night is the last thing he needs right now. 

But when he hears the thump of paws getting closer, Steve scrambles to a nearby bush and crouches behind it. 

Once he’s hidden, he tries to make himself very still. He slowly goes to pull his inhaler out of his pocket, body rigid and fingers stiff to make as little noise as possible. 

He brings it to his lips and presses the button. 

The hiss rings out like a blare of a trumpet, and Steve freezes. 

The galloping stops, and it’s replaced with the sharp crunch and snap of bones realigning. 

Then, there’s footsteps. 

Steve holds his breath, clutching his inhaler tightly in his trembling hands as he ducks lower behind the bush. 

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” Brock taunts, his grimy smile audible through his voice. “You can’t hide from me forever, Doggy. You and I both know that’s never worked.” 

Only this isn’t behind the gym or in the boy’s bathroom at their high school. 

Steve’s not afraid of getting the shit kicked out of him or having his head shoved in a toilet. 

This is life or death. 

Steve shifts, peering through the bush to try and spot Brock. 

It’s too dark to see anything clearly beyond the length of his arm. And right now, bundles of dry, blurry leaves are blocking his vision. He squints, trying to somehow sharpen his eyesight as he looks between the leaves. 

It’s quiet. 

Brock must have stopped walking, or maybe he walked too far in the opposite direction because Steve can’t hear him anymore. 

He’s left alone with the soft rustling of leaves and the beat of his heart. 

_ Glug thump. _

_ Glug thump.  _

He takes a deep breath as quietly as he can, his chest rattling as phlegm builds up in his lungs. 

Then, the leaves start crunching. 

Steve holds his breath. His lungs scream at him, his chest burns, his eyes water, but he can’t let himself breathe. 

Through the bush, Steve sees two blurry blobs that might be feet appear, followed by naked legs. 

“No one’s gonna believe you, Doggy. Best just come out now,” Brock growls, stalking around the forest, twisting his head this way and that to locate his prey. 

Steve tries to make his breathing as quiet as possible as he tracks the fuzzy legs very carefully. 

Brock walks closer to the bush until Steve can squint and see him clearly. 

Even under the dim lighting from the moon, Brock looks sick. His skin’s yellow, like he’s jaundiced, and his entire body is caked in dirt. But sweat lines run and create jagged, lightning-like patterns through the dirt, making it look like his body is covered in weird patches of hair or fur. 

“You wanna know  _ why  _ I did it?” Brock taunts, voice almost foamy with craze. “Fucking Rollins bet me to prove that your batshit mother was wrong. I knew she was crazy, but I thought it would be fun. For old times sake. But then when I buried that stuff at the crossroads, I just felt this…”

He beats his fist on his chest and stares off, as if deep in thought. He stops walking. 

“I felt this energy run through me,” he hisses like he’s telling an awful secret, but then laughs, suddenly turning on his heel, stomping straight toward Steve’s bush, and says, “Shit, I thought I could do anything. So I asked for everything. And you know what? I got it.”

Steve’s clammy fists clench as he scowls at Brock through the bush. He ends up with two fistfuls of dirt, sticks, and sharp pebbles, not realizing he had been clutching his hands against the soft forest ground. 

He glances down curiously at his hands as an idea comes to him. 

“You hear they’re calling me the best cop Canton’s ever had? I’ve got the record to prove it,” Brock taunts, walking closer to Steve’s bush. 

His eyes are glazed over, shiny with hysterics. He doesn’t know Steve’s there, just wandering around like a man under a spell. 

But still, he’s getting closer. 

So close that Steve can only see his body, then his waist, then his knees. 

Brock starts to cackle, stepping around wildly as he yells, “And it’s just fucking hilarious because your mother was right and now she’s six feet under and I’m about to be sheriff in Morley with a three-story house and health care.” 

In a flash, Steve jumps up from his hiding spot and throws his two fistfuls of dirt and sharp pebbles straight into Brock’s eyes. 

_ “Shit!” _ Brock screams, hands flying up to his eyes to try to get out the dirt.

Steve doesn’t stay to watch what he does next. He takes off again, running toward what he hopes is the main road. 

He jumps over fallen branches, ducks under tall ones, zig-zags to dodge thorny bushes and thin twigs. 

His heart is up to his throat, yet he feels it pounding in his ears. 

He can’t see anything until it’s right in front of him. He can’t see the trees. He can’t see the moon. He wouldn’t see his own hand if he held it out in front of him. 

Until, suddenly, there’s a break in the trees and he sees an empty area just beyond where the forest ends. 

The road. 

Ignoring the hot ache in his legs and the burn in his chest, he pushes forward, sprinting until his feet smack against the asphalt. 

And, as if God heard his pleas and brought them to fruition, two blurry globes of light come zooming straight toward him. 

Steve sprints toward them as if they are the bright, holy lights that everyone sees when it’s their time. 

He waves his arms frantically and starts screaming. 

“Stop!” he pleads at the top of his lungs, voice rough and wheezy as it cracks through the night. 

The driver slams on his breaks and the car starts to fishtail, swerving dangerously as Steve still stands in its path like a madman. 

It lurches when it stops three feet in front of him. 

“Are you crazy, kid?” the driver yells, sticking his head out of the side window. His face is beat red, and his hair is prematurely white. Both glow under the dimly lit street lights. 

It’s Ben, the town drunk, in his beat-up Chevy Malibu that he must have bought in the ‘80s. 

Steve scrambles to the passenger side of his car, opens the door, and jumps inside. He pushes a greasy McDonald’s bag and three crumpled paper cups off the seat and onto the floor. 

“What the hell?” Ben yells. “Get the fuck out of my car!” 

“Drive!” Steve yells back. 

“You’re in-fucking-sane if you think  _ you  _ can get into  _ my  _ car and start bossing  _ me  _ around—” 

Ben stops ranting as something over Steve’s shoulder catches his eye. 

His face freezes, with his mouth open and eyes wide like he lost a staredown with Medusa. 

Steve’s blood runs cold as he slowly turns to see what spooked Ben. 

Galloping toward them at incomprehensible speed is a giant beast, straight from perdition and nearly as tall as the car with smoking fur, large, yellow fangs, and bright, blood-red—

Steve twists back around and yells, “Don’t look into its eyes!” 

Ben, shaken from his stupor, turns forward and stomps on the gas pedal, sending them soaring down the dark road. 

Despite his frantic driving, wide eyes, flushed skin, and white knuckles, Ben asks with a voice barely louder than a whisper, “What in the hell was that?” 

“Just get us to Sam’s. I’ll explain there,” Steve brushes off in a terse tone, gripping onto the bottom of his seat as he wills himself not to look back. 

Ben blinks, face scrunched up as he glances at Steve. “Sam’s?” 

Steve growls, squeezing his eyes shut as he knocks his head against the headrest and spits, “The Falcon’s Beak!” 

“Oh!” Ben exclaims in realization as he takes an abrupt right turn to go on the right path. “Why didn’t you just say that before?” 

Steve lurches to the side and then to the other before the car rights itself. He huffs and sits up straight, keeping his eyes on the dark road in front of him. 

Ben seems to have the route memorized because they get there in no time. He swerves into the nearest parking lot, which sits in almost complete darkness as all but one of the street lamps are burnt out. 

As soon as the car is parked, Steve shoves his door open and jumps out without turning to see if Ben had done the same. 

He had, thankfully, though not as effortlessly as Steve. Ben stumbles, trying to catch his footing as his intoxicated brain attempts to make sense of what is right and what is left. 

“Sam’s got to be there, but let’s hope no one else is,” Steve comments, already starting toward the sidewalk by the main street. He looks over his shoulder, watching as Ben keeps one hand on his car to maintain his balance as he tries to catch up to Steve. 

Steve groans, throwing his head back as he starts marching back to Ben. 

“Can you hurry  _ up _ ?” he snaps. 

Before he can take another step, a giant, black blur lunges from the right.

The hound latches its teeth into Ben’s jugular, and yanks it’s head back, causing blood to splatter behind him like a popped balloon. 

Ben doesn’t even turn as his eyes grow three times their size, stretching into an endless pool of abject terror, shiny enough to pierce through the night. 

At that moment, Ben knows that he’s dead, and Steve knows he can’t do anything to help him. 

Ben’s mouth widens, stretching so far that it almost takes up half of his face and the screams that come out sound like a pig that’s being brought to slaughter. 

The hound whips its head back down, lips curled back to reveal its teeth that are longer than Steve’s forearm and dripping with Ben’s fresh blood, as it goes to take another chunk of Ben’s flesh. 

Steve pivots around and runs without sparing poor Ben a last glance as he gets ripped limb from limb. 

But Ben’s gory shrieks and pained gasps follow Steve as he sprints down the main road. The bottoms of his shoes slap against the concrete sidewalk so hard that his feet start to burn. 

He runs and runs until he makes it to Canton’s infamous local bar.

Through the large glass window that takes up the storefront, Steve can see light flood from inside and on to the sidewalk just beyond their bar. 

A couple, completely ignorant of the dire situation outside, are talking inside in an animated manner. 

Steve can’t hear what they’re saying as he is still outside, but he can make out two blurry figures. 

He assumes one is Riley, whose face is flushed as he rants and talks with his hands. Steve figures the other is Sam, who just listens and guffaws at everything Riley has to say as he wipes down the bar counter. 

And though he doesn’t want to, Steve breaks their joyous atmosphere by bursting inside the patron-empty bar, huffing and puffing like a locomotive and eyes as wide as Ben’s were. 

The couple freezes in shock, their carefree conversation coming to an abrupt halt. 

Riley pauses his gesticulating and lets his mouth hang open like a dead fish. 

Sam’s hands halt from wiping down the counter as his shocked expression begins to melt away into a look of calm confusion. 

“Steve?” he asks as he slowly raises his hands. “Is everything okay?” 

Steve points to the door, wheezing as he tries to catch his breath and tell them that there’s a monster outside. 

But before he can, a sharp growl sounds from outside, shaking the tables, chairs, and barstools. The bottles rattle on their shelves and glasses shake on the counter, all of them threatening to tip over and shatter on the floor. 

Riley’s eyes grow large as he holds his hands up to helplessly try to stop the bottles from tumbling down. 

Sam looks around the bar in terrified confusion, trying to locate the source of the growling. 

But then it dawns on him, and despite the growling and the entirety of his bar’s merchandise threatening to fall and break, he slowly turns his head to Steve, narrows his eyes and hisses, “That better not be what I think it is.” 

Riley turns his attention away from the bottles and brings it to Sam as he blurts, “And what would that be?” 

“Open up, Wilson,” a distorted, raspy voice rumbles through the door. “You shouldn’t let Doggy drag you into all his shit.” 

Sam blinks, looking at the door as he says, “Correction. That better not be  _ who  _ I think it is.” 

Steve shrugs meekly, and adds, “I’m just as surprised as you are.” 

Sam turns to Riley and frantically directs, “Get the knives from the kitchen.” 

But as soon as he says it, there’s a burst of shattering glass from the large window at the storefront, causing tiny shards to land in their hair like rainfall. 

It’s followed by the distinct and nauseating odor that Steve’s become all too familiar with.

There are heavy footsteps that shake the ground beneath them. They grow closer until Steve can feel the hot breath tickling the back of his neck. 

“Cover your eyes!” Steve screams just as the hound snaps its jaw and lunges forward. 

The couple ducks behind the counter as the hound lunges for Steve, who dives under the nearest table. 

He turns to see the tall, black legs built of billowing smoke standing in the middle of the bar. 

The hound bounds forward, knocking over tables, chairs, and barstools in its wake. 

Glasses not yet cleaned up fall and shatter on the floor. A bucket of soap and water that Sam must have been using to sanitize the tables topples over and spills all over the carpet. Giant paw prints are burnt onto the carpet as the beast runs closer. 

Just as it’s about to reach him, extending its long leg and showing Steve its fat paw, with four, long, sharp claws that somehow remind Steve of an agitated Madame Liberty, he squeezes his eyes shut and accepts his fate. 

But then, the entrance doors are kicked open, and they smack against the wall with a crack as loud as a whip. 

Steve opens his eyes to see a figure standing in the doorway, bright light spilling over her like an angel in a renaissance painting. 

Her face, showing utmost determination, is covered in a layer of dirt. Pieces of her jacket and jeans are torn and there are nicks on her knees and knuckles. 

There's a knife clutched in her left hand while her right drips blood on the floor. 

Her bright red hair still shines in the dark and the haunting pedant sways lightly on her neck as she rushes inside. 

“Keep your eyes closed!” Natasha demands as she charges right to the hound. 

The hound turns its head slightly away from Steve and snarls at Natasha. 

Black, tarry drool falls onto the carpet and burns the little tufts spiking from the ground. It omits a strange odor, like burning hair, but it’s barely noticeable over the smell of the hound. 

Steve jumps and ducks behind one of the knocked over tables. 

He pulls his knees to his chest and hugs his arms around them, frantically trying to get his breathing under control. 

Before he can stop himself, he turns and peaks from behind the table to see Natasha, face stormy with rage, grip her knife, and back up to the wall, taunting the hound to approach her. 

It takes the bait, turning its attention away from Steve and focusing all of it on Natasha. 

Everything that happens then, happens in slow motion, just as it does in the movies. 

Natasha lifts her knife above her head like the Archangel Michael had lifted his blade to slay the demonic dragon. 

The hound rams into her with all its weight, knocking her down and sending the knife flying out of her hands. 

It spins through the air gracefully, like a feather lost from a bird mid-flight floating to the ground. 

It lands on the floor, either without a sound or with the loudest  _ clang  _ the world has ever heard. 

Steve can’t tell over the roar of his heart. 

After it lands, it bounces up once, twice, three times. Each time it bounds closer and closer to Steve. Until it stops bouncing and just slides soundlessly. 

It slides until it taps against Steve’s foot, softly, like a friend nudging his shoulder to say hello. 

He looks at it and blinks once. After a beat, he reaches out and gingerly picks it up, bringing it up to his face to look at it numbly. 

Suddenly, the tranquility of the moment is ruptured as a giant mass knocks him to the ground. 

His back hits the ground roughly, knocking the wind out of his lungs. His eyes squeeze shut and his face contorts in pain as a sharp ache buzzes up his spine, through his jaw, and up to his eyeballs. 

Heavy paws push Steve’s shoulders further into the floor, making his bony shoulder blades press painfully into the flat carpet. Sharp claws begin to dig into his flesh, threatening to pop through his skin like a needle through latex. 

Without thinking, Steve opens his eyes. 

The hound begins to tilt its head, wanting to level its blood-red eyes with Steve’s. 

“Close your eyes!” Natasha yells to Steve as she pushes herself off the ground and tries to run over. She raises her arms as if to hit it. 

Before she does, Steve squeezes his eyes shut. 

The hound’s hot breath falls over his face, the hot smell of rot, sewage, gasoline, his dead mother’s breath, and tar encase him. 

_ “It won’t think twice before it kills you, Steve,”  _ Ma’s voice rumbles through his ears. 

It’s slick and slimy tongue licks its chops loudly as it bares its teeth and leans closer. 

_ “It likes you scared,”  _ Bucky's voice calls alongside Ma’s. 

Its claws dig into Steve’s shoulders, seconds away from breaking his skin. 

_ “It’ll tear you apart,”  _ Ma whispers. 

It bares its teeth, opening its jaw so wide it dislocates and stretches far past the size of Steve’s head. Its drool drips around Steve’s face, burning the carpet beside him. 

“Kill it, Steve!” Sam yells, voice fervent and terrified. 

Steve uses all his strength to sightlessly thrust the knife upward. 

It breaks through the skin with a tough pop, driving all the way to the hilt. 

The hound yelps so harshly it sounds like a scream and tries to twist away, but Steve refuses to let up. 

When he can’t drive it any deeper, Steve stiffens his arm and pulls the knife upward, ripping the skin open like a zipper and causing its blood and guts to spill all over Steve, from his stomach to his hair, like a bloody baptism. 

Steve gags and rolls away from under the hound’s body. 

It starts twisting and convulsing violently, falling flat onto the floor as the sharp snap and crack of bones reforming shakes the ground. 

Steve peeks his eyes open and sees the last snap before the transformation is complete. 

Brock, naked and bloody, is on his hands and knees, panting sharply in pain as he stares down at his bleeding abdomen and his blood pooling on the floor. He huffs to try to catch his breath and presses a hand weakly over the gaping wound. 

Steve scuffles backward, crab walking away to put at least a yard between him and Brock. 

Brock groans as his breathing becomes more labored. He glances at Steve and feebly tries to curl his lips into one last taunting smile. 

“This has to be some kind of bad punchline, Doggy,” Brock huffs through his pained smile just before his face twists in agony. He crumples to the floor, rolling over onto his back as he wheezes and grabs onto his stomach to feebly try and stop the bleeding.

Then, his face freezes. The huffing stops and is replaced with a gurgling, wet sound. His eyes grow wide with terror as he coughs and spurts the rest of his life out of him.

Steve watches in horror as blood pools in Brock’s mouth and spills from the side. 

It lasts all of a few seconds before his body goes limp, and he lays lifeless on the floor. His two terrified eyes marbleize and stare lifelessly at Steve, frozen still. 

A soft wind flows through the broken window, and loose shards of glass trickle to the ground. It’s a calm, soothing sound, like wind chimes ringing in the summer twilight. 

Natasha’s soft but quick breathing laces through the air as she stares in shock at the corpse on the ground, her arms still raised and ready to strike. 

“So,” Sam wheezes, crawling out from his hiding spot behind the counter, “did we save the town?” 

Riley pops out from behind him, wielding a metal pan with arms that tremble like paper caught in a hurricane. 

Natasha drops her arms. She turns to Steve, eyes wide and unblinking. She tilts her head as if silently asking Steve to tell her what just happened. 

Steve shrugs.

Natasha turns away, looks at Sam, and weakly nods. “Congratulations.” 

Riley cautiously stands up, putting the pan on the counter and looking around in a daze like he can’t figure out if he’s stuck in a bad dream. 

His eyes land on Brock. He swallows and awkwardly rubs the back of his head, before he points to the corpse to ask, “Is anyone else bothered by the naked dead guy?” 

Sam groans and stands up too, using the bar counter to help push himself up as he snarks, “Yeah, but I’m also bothered about my broken window.” 

He gestures to the smashed window and shards of glass littering the floor. 

“That’s gonna cost a fortune to fix,” he complains. 

“You could just sell the place,” Steve jokes from the ground, finally looking away from Brock as Sam walks over to him and offers his hand. 

Steve takes the offer and lets himself be helped up. 

“He’s got a point, you know,” Riley mumbles. “Don’t see how either of us is gonna want to work here after we had a  _ naked dead guy  _ on our  _ floor _ !” 

“Oh my  _ God,  _ can we talk about this when you aren’t looking at the naked dead guy?” Sam snaps, stomping over to get a better look at his broken window. 

“I’m sorry, when  _ is  _ a good time to talk about the naked dead guy?” Riley argues back, following Sam to the window. 

As the couple starts bickering, Natasha walks over to Steve and gently places a hand on his arm. 

Steve jumps, and she lifts her hands up in surrender. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, quickly giving Steve a once over to check him for injuries. She gently grabs his chin and starts looking at the gash on his forehead. 

“That might need stitches,” she mumbles as she grabs a rag laying across the bar counter and passes it to Steve. 

“Thanks,” he mutters and begins wiping Brock’s and his blood off of his face. “Good thing I can’t see a goddamn thing right now, because I think I’d pass out.” 

Then, as if a thought occurs to her, Natasha’s face perks up as she moves a hand to pull something out of her pocket. 

What she pulls out is a very broken pair of glasses. The frames are dented, one of the arms is broken, and the right lens is cracked. 

She hands them to Steve with an almost apologetic look and says, “Found these in the forest. I thought they looked familiar.” 

Steve takes them with a wry smile and sighs, “Guess this is only fitting considering the kind of night I’ve been having.” 

He slides them onto his face and exhales. Though it’s hard to see out of the right lens, it’s infinitely better than going around squinting at everything to try and figure out what’s a tree and what’s a person. 

Steve looks back at Natasha as she continues to check him for injuries. 

Her necklace hangs stiffly and non-threateningly under the fluorescent lights. It doesn’t seem to be staring at Steve anymore. It doesn’t seem to be staring at anything. 

“Wait,” Steve starts slowly, pulling his arm from Natasha’s grip. “Are  _ you  _ a hunter?” 

She rolls her eyes and groans, “God, not another nerd. Yes, I’m a hunter. No, I haven’t seen  _ Supernatural _ .” 

“And Clint?” Steve asks. 

As if on cue, Clint jogs in through the entrance, completely out of breath, holding a fist full of sage and torn rope. 

“Clint's supposed to be back up,” Natasha says in a sarcastic cheery tone through gritted teeth. 

“Not my fault he,” Clint huffs and waves to a figure approaching from behind him, “is too fucking fast.” 

Bucky then saunters into the bar, wearing a freshly washed pair of sweats and a t-shirt that’s a few sizes too small. 

Steve gasps, running over to his very much alive boyfriend and exclaiming, “You’re not dead!” 

Bucky scoffs as Steve runs into him, wrapping him up tightly in his arms. He smiles and leans down to press a firm kiss to the top of his head even though Steve’s hair is caked with blood. 

“Told you I’d be fine,” Bucky jokes. 

“Wait, what’s up with the rope?” Steve asks, pulling away from Bucky to look at Clint. He turns back to Bucky and looks at his outfit. He raises an eyebrow. “And whose clothes are these?” 

Bucky unwraps one of his arms from around Steve and points a thumb at Clint. “He didn’t want me to walk around naked.” 

At the same time, Clint peels one hand from his knee and points at Bucky. 

“He was—God, I can’t breathe—he was tied to a tree. He got caught in a trap we laid out before we found out about this guy,” Clint waves to Brock lying lifeless and naked on the floor before turning back to Bucky and spitting, “And he tried to  _ bite  _ me when I untied him!” 

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly, “Next time don’t get so close to my face.”

“That’s where the rope was!” Clint argues. 

“Your glasses are broken,” Bucky comments to Steve. His eyebrows furrow as he pokes Steve’s right lens and hums inquisitively. 

Steve waves him off, grumbling, “Yeah, I noticed that.” 

“This is who you’ve been seeing?” Sam asks, turning away from the window and nodding towards Bucky, “You know your ma’s screaming down at you from the land above, right?” 

“You knew I was seeing someone?” Steve asks and steps out of Bucky’s arms. 

Sam rolls his eyes, “Man, you were pink and dazed all the time. And not tired dazed. Happy, smiling without thinking about it dazed. And you were always rushing back home with no explanation. I’m not stupid.” 

“Guys,” Riley quips, finally turning away from the dead, naked Brock, “Can we talk about this another time? I think we need to start cleaning.” 

They all stop and look around at the terrible state of the bar. 

The window’s basically gone. All the furniture is turned over. A table and a couple of chairs are broken. There are burn marks littering the carpet, resembling anything from paw prints to jagged, uneven spots like those found on a cow. There is glass and blood everywhere, not to mention the dead, naked guy on the floor. 

Riley exhales, shoulders sagging as he emphasizes, “Badly.” 

Steve goes to wash up in the bathroom, sticking his head in the sink and pumping water over his head to get Brock’s dried blood out of his hair. 

Natasha told him to wash out the cut on his forehead, too, since she needs to clean it with an antiseptic.

He’s changed into clean clothes that Riley gave him from a set he has stored in the back for whenever he has to work overnight. 

Steve pumps hand soap into his palms, lathers it, and uses it as best he can to help scrub out as much blood as possible. But every time he looks up in the mirror to check his progress, it's still there, deep red and flaky against his straw-colored hair. 

He almost can’t recognize himself. His hair’s mussed, his eyes are wild, his face is flushed. Specks of dry blood lie across his face like freckles. 

As he stares at his unrecognizable reflection, he thinks of the young boy he once was. The sickly, twiggy thing with too much heat in his eyes and an ache in his heart. The boy who sat on a bench at the corner of the playground and glared at the kids playing together in the field when really he just wanted them to ask him to join. 

He thinks of his mother, whose kind but cautious eyes never wavered and whose cold hands always felt warm when she rubbed Steve’s back or brushed his hair. 

And he thinks of Brock, the sly boy who pointed and laughed when Steve walked by. Who pushed him down after school and kicked his stomach until his ribs ached. Who smiled sickly sweet at his mother and convinced her that Steve was the one who started it. 

That same Brock who’s now lying dead in the next room. Who died because Steve dug a knife into his belly when he couldn’t even look him in the eyes. 

Steve huffs and scrubs at his hair again. 

He gives up eventually, walking out of the bathroom in a huff with his hair and t-shirt soaked.

Sam meets him first and hands him a rag to dry his hair with and a first aid kit for his cut. 

Steve quickly rubs some antiseptic on it before he slaps on a bandaid. 

Natasha’s on her knees, scrubbing up the blood around Brock’s corpse with a rag that she soaks with a bucket of bleach resting beside her. The stain is now an orangy-pink color, looking more like it came from a spilled drink. 

She looks over at Steve, sees his bandaid, and gives him an unimpressed look. 

He waves her off and starts to towel dry his hair. 

Clint walks over from behind the bar and hands him a cup of freshly brewed coffee from Sam’s secret coffee machine that he keeps hidden in the kitchen for him, Riley, and their wait staff. 

Steve throws the towel over his shoulder and takes the coffee with a tight smile. He brings it up to his nose to let the steam flow over his face. When he takes a sip, he winces at the bitter taste that is almost unfamiliar to him. 

Clint goes back to the dining area, helping Bucky turn the still intact furniture over so they’re upright. 

Riley comes over and sheepishly lays an old tablecloth over Brock’s naked corpse. 

“So,” Natasha starts, effectively bringing an end to the awkward silence in the bar. She drops her rag in the bucket, rests her hands on her hips, and says, “We have some explaining to do.” 

Steve crosses his arms and quips, “No kidding.” 

“Clint and I are hunters,” she says, holding up her pedant. “And my family’s been trying to get rid of hellhounds for decades. They’re about the only thing more persistent than encantados.” 

Steve blinks, “Than what?” 

“Shapeshifting trickster dolphins,” Clint explains casually as he dusts off his hands and walks over. 

Steve looks at Bucky for confirmation that this is a thing. 

He just shrugs, looking just as confused as Steve. 

After Sam dumps his dustpan full of glass into the trash, he walks over and asks, “If you don’t mind me asking, does hunting mean you can’t shower? Because, no offense, you both stink.” 

Natasha scoffs, and explains, “That was Clint’s idea. We sprayed ourselves with vinegar to keep the hounds off our trail,” she smiles wryly and turns to Clint, “Clint thought that if we smelt like them, they’d leave us alone.” 

Bucky starts cackling, really cackling. Like, full belly laughter with tears coming to his eyes. 

It makes Clint go red as he huffs and crosses his arms, turning away to grumble under his breath. 

“We only smell when we’re shifted,” Bucky explains through giggles. 

Clint grumbles, “We know that now.” 

“And it’s like a deeper smell,” Steve adds, “You know, like rotten meat. Not like B.O..” 

Clint throws his arms up and snaps, “The websites only said they stank. They didn’t say of what.” 

“And your necklaces?” Steve asks. 

“Warding symbols,” Natasha explains quickly. “They’ve been passed through my family for generations. They allow us to get close to supernatural creatures, like hellhounds, without being turned into them.” 

With that, she turns to Clint and Bucky, snaps her fingers and points to the body, “Grab him and follow me. We should get rid of it before the sun comes out.” 

Clint grabs Brock’s feet and Bucky grabs his shoulders before they lift him up and start shuffling toward the door. 

Riley rushes forward, holding open the door for them as the rest of the group follows them out. 

Natasha heads to the front, leading their way down the sidewalk. 

“It was my great grandfather that killed the first hound in Canton after hearing that some sucker made a deal,” Natasha explains over her shoulder. 

Steve moves his eyes to Bucky, who meets Steve’s eyes and flushes. He awkwardly changes his grip on Brock’s stiff shoulders before looking forward again. 

Natasha continues, “We figured that would be the last one in Canton since my great grandpa told everyone that the man who made the deal died, until Clint and I heard through the grapevine that people started disappearing here a few months back. We decided to come up and figure out what was going on, but when we tracked it down to you—” she turns on her heel and points to Steve before pivoting around again “—we knew something else was going on.” 

She turns sharply down an alleyway that none of them had seen in the dark. 

They all stumble as they try to stop abruptly and turn their heads to try to figure out which way she went. 

Clint grunts and readjusts his grip on Brock’s feet. 

“She went that way,” he nods toward the alleyway. 

They all turn and blindly make their way through the dimly lit alley, until the sound of a car door opening stops them. 

A small section of the alley is flooded with light coming from the inside of the car. Beside it stands Natasha, who waits with a hand on her hip. 

She looks at Bucky and Clint, nodding to the trunk of the car and demands, “Put him back here.” 

Clint awkwardly tries to shuffle forward. 

“Here, this’ll be easier,” Bucky claims, readjusting Brock so Clint holds him bridal style. He smiles and moves away to stand next to Steve, leaving Clint with the body. 

“I’m sorry,  _ how  _ is this easier?” Clint snaps, struggling to hold the body and distribute it to the trunk. 

“You’ll figure it out,” Bucky says. 

Natasha exhales stiffly, before looking at Steve and continuing her story. “We followed you to the grocery store that night, but when we got there, you were already running through the parking lot with the hound right behind you. Before we could intervene, this guy—” she gestures to Bucky “—pulls up and throws you into his car. When we saw him staring the hound in the eye, we knew he had to be one, too. We thought that you were working with him, or maybe they were working together, which is why we stopped you the other day.” 

Steve scoffs and clarifies, “And by stopped you mean chased me down and dragged me into an alleyway?” 

Natasha waves her hand dismissively, “Same thing.” 

“Okay, so your family’s been doing this for some time,” Sam notes before he looks inquisitively toward Clint and points his thumb at him. “What about him?” 

Natasha smiles, small but almost fond, and says, “I met Clint a few years back. He and his friends were running a ghost hunting operation out of his parents’ garage.” 

“Uh, it was  _ my  _ garage,” Clint clarifies defensively. “My parents just owned the house.” 

“And you let him join you?” Steve asks. “Isn’t that, like, sacrilegious?” 

Natasha shrugs, “I thought he was cute.” 

“So Rumlow made a deal?” Riley asks, watching in vague disgust as Clint tries to dump Brock’s naked and lifeless body into the bed of the truck. 

“Seems like it,” Natasha hums. 

“No wonder he caught the uncatchable flasher,” Sam mutters. “Knew that was too good to make sense.” 

“He made a deal to catch a flasher?” Clint pants, struggling to get a good grip on Brock’s limp body. He slips from Clint’s grip, and Clint groans and turns to Bucky. “You gonna help, bud, or you wanna just stand there?”

Bucky shrugs, wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulder. “Standing here’s pretty good.” 

“I think he made a deal to be successful,” Steve notes, “You know, job promotion, one hundred percent success rate in solving crimes, nice wife, good house. He was leading in the election for the sheriff position in Morley.” 

Everyone stops what they’re doing, turns and looks at him, their eyebrows collectively furrowed in confusion. 

“How do you know that?” Sam asks. 

Steve rolls his eyes and grunts, “He told me.” 

“Well,” Sam huffs, clapping his hands together and turning on his heels toward Riley. “On that note, we’re going home. We need to start looking up realtors.” 

Riley tilts his head back and raises one incredulous brow as he asks, “Oh really?” 

“Yes, really,” Sam snarks back. “I’m not taking any chances after tonight, unless  _ you  _ want another monster breaking into our bar again.” 

Riley drops the look and replaces it with a fond smile as he shakes his head and grabs Sam’s hand. 

“Well, I guess we better get going,” he laughs and starts leading their way out of the alley. 

“Let me know if you find anyone,” Steve calls to their retreating figures. 

Sam raises his hand to give Steve the okay sign before turning back around and leaving the alley. 

When they turn the corner and disappear, Steve exhales lightly and turns back around to look at the truck. 

Clint finally discards the body into the trunk, exhaling dramatically and resting against it. 

“You two love birds should get home, too,” Natasha suggests. “We’ve got it from here.” 

“You sure?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah,” she assures, lips lifting into an almost smile. 

She gets into the driver’s side, quickly followed by Clint who gets into the passenger seat. The headlights flash on, illuminating the entire alleyway as the engine rumbles to life. 

Before they can take off, Natasha leans her head out the side window and points at Bucky. “You make sure he gets that cut on his head checked out.” 

Steve scoffs and shakes his head, about to argue when Bucky presses a hand over his mouth. 

“Will do,” he assures, voice as sweet as honey as he puts on his charming grin. 

Steve growls and pushes Bucky away, as he scowls at nothing. 

Natasha smiles and curls her fingers in a little wave. 

“Bye, boys!” she calls as she starts to drive. 

Steve and Bucky watch as they drive away, taking the light with them as they leave the couple in dark silence. 

It’s a calm silence though, like a peaceful ebb and flow of a once rocky ocean. 

After a few moments of peace, Steve turns to Bucky and asks, “What do you say, Buck? Ready to go back to the cabin?” 

Bucky smiles. He leans down and presses a kiss to the top of Steve’s head and says, “Yeah. Let’s go home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who had to get a COVID test today :( 
> 
> Anyway, see you all tomorrow for the last two chapters of this story! (chapter 15 and the epilogue) 
> 
> Have a happy (and safe), Halloween Eve!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

_ Three months later.  _

November always comes into Canton happy and crisp. 

Downtown looks like the set of a Hallmark movie. The small shops have frost perfectly frozen on their windows. Smoke billows softly from chimneys. The smell of warm and spiced apple cider laces through the air. The air has a dry chill that is so autumnal most people will only ever picture it through storybooks. 

Children run through town with thick sweaters and bright colored scarves that their mothers knitted. They run to the leaf piles that hold orange, red, and yellow so vibrant that their parents can’t be mad when the children jump into them. 

Couples walk close together, bundled in their favorite fall outfits. Their cheeks and tips of their noses are rosy. 

Weaving through those couples is a woman who is alone and walks with a determined strut. 

Her hair is wrapped in a scarf, but bits of red flyaways peak through the sides. There’s a necklace tucked into her sweater. In her hands is a box filled with knick-knacks she purchased from the thrift store, like a hairbrush, a rusted tea kettle, and a yellow flower pot. 

The pot is chipped, and the paint is faded, but she doesn’t mind. 

She walks past the local bar with a smashed front window that is covered with a tarp. It has a sold sign sitting in front of it. She heard the owner sold the bar so he could start classes at the community college in the next town over. 

Everyone in town has been talking about it, wondering who’s going to own the bar next and what the new hours are gonna be. 

There’s also a lot of talk about that missing cop, the one that was running for chief. There’s been no word from him in months, but with all those people who went missing, it’s no big surprise that someone else has run off, too. 

After looking through his computer, the local department figured he met up with some girl he was chatting with online and went to live in her sorority house down in Florida. Other people think that he might’ve been kidnapped, or worse, killed, but the lady with the scarf doesn’t know  _ anything  _ about that. 

She walks briskly past a young couple, no older than twenty-one, and they manage to peek into her box. 

“Hey, lady!” the man calls, tone commanding and stiff like he’s expecting an argument. 

His girlfriend has her spaghetti-noodle arms wrapped around one of his. She looks inquisitively at her boyfriend, and then to the strange lady. 

The lady stops, takes a deep breath, and puts on a sweet smile before turning around. 

“Yes?” she asks. 

The man points to the box and says, “I wouldn’t keep that if I were you. Steve Rogers just donated a bunch of his ma’s old stuff to that store,” he points over his shoulder to the thrift store she had just been in. 

He turns back around and looks expectantly at the woman. 

She slowly raises an eyebrow and steps closer, walking until there’s about a foot between them. Then she asks, “And why would that matter?” 

The guy gives her a bewildered look and scoffs, looking in disgust at the knick-knacks in the box before he claims, “Because they’re freaks! Who knows what kind of disease is gonna be on those?” 

“Or what curse,” the girlfriend inputs, nodding her head like this is something very serious. 

The woman looks between the two of them, purposely quiet for a few moments, before she slowly nods and says, “Right.” 

She looks over her shoulder at the road and bids them farewell with, “Well, thank you for that information. It’s definitely something I’ll consider.” 

And as she turns to walk away, she stomps directly on his foot with the heel of her boot. 

“What the hell?!” the man yells in pain and confusion, hopping on one foot as he holds onto the injured one. 

“Are you okay?” his girlfriend asks, voice squeaky with panic. 

The red-headed woman smiles and continues down the sidewalk until she turns swiftly to open the passenger door of a parked truck. 

She hops inside and closes the door soundly. 

“Ready to leave Canton?” the driver asks as soon as her door is closed. 

He peers over at her, looking above the rims of his sunglasses. 

“Clint,” she starts, turning to put the box in the middle seat. When she sits forward, flopping back into the seat and sighing, she emphasizes, “I’ve been ready to leave this town since we first pulled in.” 

She kicks her legs up onto the dashboard and crosses her arms. She closes her eyes, nods forward, and commands, “Get me out of this Lifetime movie nightmare.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Clint laughs, putting the car in drive and flooring it. 

They’re out of the town in no time, and neither of them looks over their shoulders to watch it disappear. 

“Where to now?” Clint asks as Canton shrinks in their rearview mirror. 

Natasha keeps her eyes closed as she shrugs and says, “Heard someone spotted Bigfoot in Michigan.” 

Clint perks up. “The guy who makes the t-shirts?” 

Natasha taps her nose. 

Clint grins, sitting up taller in his seat as he turns onto the westbound highway. 

When Steve was five-years-old, his mother still had her father’s record player and music collection. 

Before she needed to pawn them off for grocery money, she would play her favorite Vera Lynn record and sway softly in the living room. 

Steve would run over and grab her hands, and she’d smile and lift him up into her arms and hold him tight. 

He’d lean his head against her shoulder, and she would lean her cheek against his hair while humming softly to the song. 

When the music had stopped and she placed him back on the ground, she’d hold his shoulders, look him in the eyes, and smile. 

“I’ll never need a man to take me dancing when I have you, Stevie,” she’d whisper, thin lips smiling as wide as they could. 

And Steve would look at her, really look at her. He’d look at her dull freckles, the paper-thin wrinkled skin by her eyes, her thinning hair, her pale lips. 

He’d wonder why no man would ask her to dance. Why no one thought she was as beautiful as he did. 

He thought she was beautiful even in the end when life took its toll and the prying hands of the ripper reached from around the corner. She still smiled when she could, and she hummed those old songs when Steve would start to cry. 

He wishes he could hear her humming now more than ever as he passes through the giant, metal gates that lead into an endless expanse of headstones. 

After much debate and constant reassurance from Bucky and Sam, Steve decides that it’s time to pay his mother a visit. 

The Canton cemetery is well kept. The grass is freshly cut. The flowers along the edges are trimmed and bright. All the leaves have been raked and the piles done away with. The groundskeeper chases away loose ducks that wander in from the pond and leave droppings all over the headstones.

Steve walks in on nervous legs, knees shaking as he makes his way through the cemetery to locate his mother’s grave. 

He’s bundled up in Bucky’s coat, freshly washed jeans, and a pair of new boots. An attempt to block out the bitter cold air that still manages to sting his cheeks and burn his eyes. 

It’s been so long since he’s come here. He only came once when they lowered her into the ground. 

He left soon after the funeral, leaving her to face the cruel torment from the town alone. Even though she was dead, they never left her to rest in peace. 

He fiddles with the flowers he purchased at the nearby vendor stationed conveniently near the cemetery gates. 

They’re tulips, and he can’t remember if Ma liked tulips or if she just bought them because they were always cheap. 

That’s really why Steve got them, and he feels a little guilty for it. 

He comes to an abrupt halt when a certain headstone catches his eye. 

It’s the one part of the cemetery that isn’t well kept. The grass around this grave is overgrown and the headstone itself is covered so cruelly in graffiti and dirt and muck that Steve feels his knees become weak, though he wills himself to walk forward. 

He stares at the headstone, stomach souring in horror as he looks over the obscene words painted across her name. Things like “crazy bitch” and “rot in hell”. When every other grave has been scrubbed clean, hers is covered in duck shit and lewd sayings. 

He’d been expecting this. What else was he supposed to think? That they would leave her alone? That they would keep her grave pretty? That they’d give her some peace? 

But it’s a nauseating thing to see it in person and have his fears confirmed. 

Canton hates his mother for absolutely no reason, and it doesn’t matter whether she’s dead or alive. 

Steve goes numb. 

The flowers slip from his hand and land silently on the soft grass. 

The world is silent around him. There’s nothing but the sound of birds chirping in the distance and the soft whistling of the wind as it ruffles his hair. 

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and thinks to the time where they danced to an old record and she held him safe in her arms. 

He exhales and opens his eyes. He steps closer, picking up the flowers from the ground and kneeling down in front of her headstone. 

He lays the flowers down gently and looks up at the granite as if it were her. 

“Hey, Ma,” Steve whispers, offering a tight, feeble smile that’s as honest as a dying man saying he feels fine. 

He readjusts, sitting with his legs crossed and folding his hands in his lap. 

“God, if only I could tell you everything that’s happened,” he laughs wetly, brushing his fingers through the overgrown grass. “You’d probably keel over if I did.” 

He looks at the stone and smiles, almost expecting her to smile back and pester him into telling her anyway. 

But she doesn’t. 

Steve takes a shaking inhale and looks around, trying to either stop himself from crying or find another thing to say. 

He wrings his hands and admits, “I finally cleaned out our house. About to sell it, too. Had to give away a lot of your stuff, but not all of it. Sam helped me look through it all to figure out what I wanted to keep.” 

He swallows to ease his dry throat and continues, “I, uh, kept some of your bibles. The nice ones from Nana. I know how much you loved them. I just wish I put them in your cask—” 

His voice breaks, and he cuts himself off and shakes his head to stop himself from crying. 

But then he looks at her headstone, really looks. 

He looks at the shit and the cruel statements and the rusty orange paint that dripped and leaked onto the grass. 

“Oh, Ma,” he laments, lurching forward to press his hand against the cold granite as if it were her weathered cheek. “What did they do to you?” 

He frantically tries to wipe the graffiti off with the sleeve of his jacket, but it doesn’t even smudge. 

And so he folds over, defeated, and cries. 

Cries for the mother he lost, and the respect she never received. 

Falls in Canton are crisp and calm, but the winters are sharp, bitter, and terribly cold. 

That’s why Steve’s begrudgingly thankful to host his moving out party that he didn’t even plan. At least with his bare house being filled with people, it feels a little warm. 

Peggy, who finished her three-hour road trip only an hour ago, is crying in the corner of the living room while cradling a very happy Madame Liberty to her chest. 

Steve just finished telling her that he won’t be moving back to the apartment, which he thought was obvious since he was only supposed to be in Canton for the summer. 

Apparently, it wasn’t as clear as he thought, because Peggy promptly waved him off, picked up her cat, and stomped to the other side of the room where she’s been sniffling to herself ever since. 

Peggy’s cousin, Sharon, is carefully plating food in the kitchen. She accompanied Peggy for the trip since she’d never seen upstate New York, and she kind of wanted to meet the grumpy and sick Steve Rogers herself. 

She only talked to Steve for a moment, affirming that Peggy was right about him having the anger of “a ninety-year-old man who went to war in his youth, and wouldn’t let anyone forget that it was the best year of his life.” 

Steve didn’t know how to take that, so he gave her a stiff smile, nodded, and excused himself to putz around in the living room. 

He took that time to notice the atmosphere of the party, looking at his mix-matched group of houseguests. 

Riley’s laughing with his old wait staff, who are complaining about their new owners. 

“You could’ve at least left the coffee machine,” one complains half-heartedly, and Riley looks sorry about it. 

Bucky is fiddling with the fireplace, stoking the fire and brushing the soot that landed on the floor into a dustpan. There’s soot on the tip of his nose, but he doesn’t realize this so he doesn’t brush it off. 

His eyes are squinted in concentration and there are two deep lines between his eyebrows. His lips are turned down in a small frown. 

And still, even as he looks so serious, there’s that soot on his nose, making him resemble a boy who got his face dirty while he was outside playing. 

Steve thinks it’s cute. He smiles fondly to himself, hugs his arms around his middle, and feels a soft warmth spread through his stomach like fluttering fireflies on a warm summer evening. 

“You’re fawning again,” Sam teases with a sly grin, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s and passing him a plastic flute of cheap champagne. 

Steve rolls his eyes and takes the glass. “Was not,” he grumbles. 

“Were, too,” Sam insists and takes a sip from his glass. 

Steve smiles, silently relenting, as he lifts his glass to knock it against Sam’s. 

“Hey, thanks for getting Lorraine to help me sell,” Steve says, nodding over to the aforementioned woman standing in the corner of the living room.

Lorraine Rollins’ face is drained of all color and her eyes are wide as she watches in terror at her boys running around the living room. She’s pressed into her husband, Jack’s side as she clutches a glass of water so tightly in her hands, it looks like it might shatter. 

Sam chuckles as he takes in the mildly humorous scene before he turns back to Steve and shrugs, “Wasn’t a problem. Jack owed me one. And it was easy enough since I told her I was already buying it.” 

“When are you thinking of moving in?” Steve asks and then takes a sip from his glass. 

“Riley’s thinking after New Years. Gives us time to finish packing,” Sam explains, before nodding toward Bucky, who’s still fiddling with the fireplace, and asking, “How’s it been at the cabin? You guys able to stay warm enough?”

Steve tries to suppress his smile as he looks down at his glass and says, “Yeah, we have our ways.” 

Sam’s face twists up and he pushes Steve’s shoulder as he jokingly pleads, “Keep it PG, Rogers.” 

Steve snorts and emphasizes, “I meant we have a heater.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Sure.” 

Steve’s about to come back with a snarky, and maybe a little mean, remark when he catches Peggy in the corner of his eye waving him over.

He excuses himself from Sam and walks over to her, reciting a silent thank you that she’s no longer sobbing. 

“I just got a call from work,” she starts, dabbing her eyes gently with a tissue. She gives Steve a genuinely apologetic look and admits, “I have to head back soon. They need me in the office by the morning.” 

“Are you sure?” Steve checks, stroking Madame Liberty’s chin. 

Peggy nods, looking down as she folds the tissue and puts it in her pocket. 

“It’s urgent, Steve,” she insists, even though Steve knows that she wouldn’t leave early if it wasn’t. 

Steve nods forlornly, dropping his arm as he jokes, “One of these days, you’re gonna have to tell me where you work.” 

She looks at him with a sly smile and wet eyes as she whispers, “I’m a secret agent.” 

“Oh,” Steve exclaims sarcastically, tilting his head back and pretending to observe her very closely. “I’m shocked. Completely.” 

Peggy giggles, her smile stretching in model-esque fashion with her lips bright and teeth pearly. 

She stops after a moment, her smile shrinking until it’s barely there. She looks across the room to Bucky, who’s been cornered by Sam in the kitchen where Sam’s trying to teach him how to make a cocktail. 

“Is he good to you? Does he make you feel whole?” Peggy asks, tone soft though her face suggests that she won’t take a half-hearted answer. 

Steve glances toward Bucky as well, and fonds as he watches Bucky attempt to shake the mixing glass only to get vodka splashed back onto him because he didn’t hold the top down. 

“He makes me feel like a person,” Steve explains. “Like one worth loving.” 

Peggy turns and looks at him inquisitively, though not accusatory, and says, “ _ I _ love you, Steve.”

“You do,” Steve acknowledges, glancing to meet her eye to show he was being earnest. “Sam, too. And maybe even Riley. Just—”

Steve pauses as Bucky glances up from the kitchen and meets his eye. 

Bucky grins, waving to the mess on his sweater and shaking his head, and Steve grins back. 

He doesn’t turn away from Bucky as he completes his thought, “Just not like him. I never thought anyone would love me like him.” 

Peggy nods, shifting her weight to heft up the sleeping Liberty a little higher in her arms, before she says, “That’s all I needed to hear.” 

The party dies down soon after Peggy announces her departure. 

The Rollins are the first to leave, with Lorraine grabbing the hands of both her children as she pulls them out the front door with Jack moseying behind. 

Then there are the waiters and waitresses from The Falcon’s Beak, who thank Steve one by one for inviting them as they walk out the door. 

Sam and Riley are next as they wave like a picturesque set of grandparents leaving a family dinner party. 

And last are Peggy and Sharon. 

Steve and Bucky stand on the front porch, Bucky with his arm around Steve to keep him warm and Steve leaning almost all his body weight against Bucky. 

Steve’s wearing three coats, a beanie that comes to his eyebrows, and a scarf that Bucky wrapped around his neck and up to his ears. 

Snow is piled three-feet high in the front yard, coming up to the height of the porch. 

Bucky shoveled snow out of the driveway before the party began, and it managed to pile back up in the short time that the party was happening. 

Everything’s been white and miserable for so long, Steve’s beginning to forget what his old, dead lawn looked like. He figures it's for the best because by the time the snow melts away and spring makes its welcomed entrance, this house will be nothing more than a memory. 

As Sharon and Peggy walk out of the house, each bundled in their winter coats, Sharon pauses and thanks Steve for letting her, albeit short, visit to upstate New York be a memorable one. 

“It’s not often I meet someone at their goodbye party,” she laughs lightly as she puts bags of Madame Liberty’s cat food and other supplies in the back seat of her car. 

Peggy walks over with her arms full of Madame Liberty. She stops in front of Steve and gives a melancholy sigh. 

“Don’t be a stranger, Steve,” she begs lightly, tone half-joking as she tries to smile. 

“You know I won’t,” he promises as he steps out from Bucky’s hold and pulls Peggy and Madame Liberty into the tightest hug he can muster. 

Liberty growls in annoyance, but it’s muffled by Steve’s coat. 

After a few moments, Peggy pulls away reluctantly, quickly wiping her eyes with one hand before she drops it on Steve’s shoulder to give him one last reassuring squeeze. 

She smiles at him, sad but genuine, before she looks at Bucky and instructs, “Take care of him.” 

Bucky gives her a tight, awkward smile in return as he promises, “I will.” 

She nods, reluctantly happy with his answer, and promptly turns on her heel to scurry off the porch and into the car that Sharon’s trying to heat up. 

Peggy closes the door soundly and gives Steve one last watery smile through the passenger window. 

As Sharon begins to carefully put her foot on the gas, Peggy lifts Madame Liberty’s paw and makes her wave goodbye. 

Steve gives a quick, wet laugh as he brings his gloved hand up to wave goodbye. His tears sting in his eyes since they freeze as soon as they’re produced. 

Once Peggy and Sharon take a turn at the end of the street and disappear from sight, Steve huffs a forced laugh and quickly wipes his eyes. 

“I think she’s a secret agent,” Steve comments to Bucky, lips quirking at his own private joke. 

Bucky hums in response, instead of forcing himself to chuckle like Steve expected.

Steve narrows his eyes and glances up at him. 

Bucky’s working his jaw and staring out at the salted road like he’s having some sort of internal argument with himself. 

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, tilting away from Bucky so he can examine the expression on his face better. 

Bucky chews his lip, darting his eyes to Steve for a second before looking forward again. 

“Get your keys. I want to show you something.”

It’s the only explanation Steve gets before he’s being corralled inside to do what Bucky asked. 

“Why?” is all Steve can bother saying as they approach the familiar, yet frosted, arches of Canton Cemetery. 

“Because there’s something I need to show you,” Bucky responds as he tightens his grip on Steve’s hand as if Steve will run off otherwise. 

Steve rolls his eyes and huffs, making a cloud puff out of his mouth. 

It’s freezing. Inhumanly cold. With every step, their feet sink into the thick snow, which soaks their jeans and boots. 

Bucky drove them there, but the nearest parking lot was not near as close as Steve would have wanted it to be. 

Steve shivers, shucking his free hand into his pocket and trying to keep his thoughts on warm things; the fireplace, a stovetop, summer afternoons, Bucky’s chest when Steve rests his head on it. 

“I told you I never wanted to come back here,” Steve snaps abruptly, the chill in his words adding to the already cold air. 

“I know,” Bucky hums, but he keeps tugging Steve forward like the obnoxious bastard he is. 

“You’re not proving anything by bringing me here,” Steve continues, side-eying a glare to Bucky. 

“I know,” Bucky repeats, just as calm as before. 

Steve really wants to punch him. 

Steve stubbornly keeps quiet as they continue their freezing walk through the cemetery. He tries to stomp his feet, but considering how hard it is to lift his feet high enough out of the snow for it to be effective, he gives up just as soon as he starts. 

He huffs dramatically, and glares off at the expanse of headstones in front of them. 

Until a particularly familiar one catches his eye. 

There, maybe ten feet away, is a gravestone that Steve vowed to never return to. 

But where there was graffiti, duck shit, and lewd sayings is now just cool, smooth granite. It’s so clean that Steve thinks he might be able to see his reflection in it. 

Even the snow has been brushed off, leaving only a thin layer dusting the very top of it. 

There’s a lush stack of flowers laying beside it. There’s a bundle of roses, a lavender vase with lilacs, and an extravagant bouquet that has red, white, and pink flowers with little ribbons tied throughout. 

The bouquet has a little card at the bottom that says nothing except  _ N&C  _ next to a tiny doodle of a heart _.  _

Steve stutters to a stop, awkwardly jostling Bucky who tried to keep walking forward. 

Steve’s mouth falls open and any traces of saliva that might have hidden away under his tongue freezes and leaves a crisp taste in his mouth. 

“Oh my god,” Steve whispers, turning to Bucky as he asks. “Did you do this?” 

Bucky smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck. “Sam helped a lot. I mean, I guess it was mostly Sam,” he pauses, and nods back to the headstone. “I knew how upset you were about it, and no one should have a grave with no flowers.” 

Steve smiles and turns back to the headstone. He walks over and kneels down in front of it, knees sinking into the thick snow and soaking his jeans. 

He reaches his hand out to gently run his fingers over the clean, sharp words. 

_ Sarah Rogers.  _

_ Beloved Mother and Friend.  _

He takes a few minutes to admire it and wishes that his mother could just be here sitting beside him to see how far her son has come. 

“You know,” Bucky starts, voice hesitant. 

Steve jumps, abruptly pulled out from his soft, little world, as he looks over his shoulder to Bucky standing behind him. 

Bucky’s looking at Ma’s grave intently like somehow it will give him the strength to finish his thought. 

“Yeah, Buck?” Steve probes. 

“We don’t have to stay in my cabin,” he says, tone stiff. 

It brings Steve a chill worse than the cold air around them. 

He reels back, panicked, thinking that he’s trying to say they shouldn’t move in together.

Bucky, none the wiser to Steve’s panic, continues. 

“We can leave Canton,” Bucky suggests, shrugging nonchalantly though his tone suggests he feels anything but. 

“If you want,” he cautiously tacks on at the end. 

Steve freezes, analyzing Bucky to find any hint that he’s lying. 

Bucky timidly turns his eyes to Steve’s. 

His blue eyes are soft and earnest with a sense of urgency beneath them, and Steve knows that he’s being truthful. 

“We can?” Steve whispers, needing one last confirmation before he gets his hopes up. 

“Sure, we can,” Bucky affirms, lips turning up into a hopeful smile. “We can go anywhere you’d like.” 

Steve grins so widely that his cheeks start to ache. He nods fervently and says, “I’d like that, Buck. I’d really like that.” 

Bucky grins back, all evidence of uncertainty melting from his face. 

Steve leaps up, kicking snow as he rushes to Bucky and leaps into his arms, wrapping his legs around Bucky’s waist and his arms around his neck. 

Before Bucky can laugh, put Steve back down and say he’s being silly, Steve reels him in and presses their lips together so firmly, he swears all the love he’s ever held will just melt off of him and onto Bucky. 

Bucky kisses back just as hard, and Steve can feel his lips turn up into a smile. 

And just like that, Steve knows that it doesn’t matter what place they go to, whether it’s across the country, Bucky’s cabin, or Steve’s old house in Canton, he’ll be home as long as they’re together. 

And he has a feeling that Bucky feels the same way. 


	17. Epilogue

**Summer. 2031.**

There’s a damp coldness in the forest. 

Crickets chirp and leap. Leaves rustle as the wind whispers to them. Owls hoot and hunt, diving down to snatch their rodent prey. The trees are tall and looming, staring down at the party below like nosy eavesdroppers. 

The party consists of four bright, young faces with doe eyes and shiny cheeks. 

A lively fire sits in the center of their circle. Sparks from the fire flutter up to the sky like tiny bugs. The wood cracks and sputters, sending little pops through the forest air. 

The children lean closer to the fire, either to shield themselves from the cold air or because their intrigue with the story drew them closer. 

The leader of the pack, a ten-year-old boy, holds a flashlight below his chin so only his cheeky grin is illuminated. 

He deepens his voice to an unnatural growl that sounds absolutely demonic coming from a child. 

His little sister and her best friend sit huddled together on a log across from him. They clutch each other’s arms and smush together, both shaking so bad they can barely keep their balance. 

The leader’s friend sits on a log beside his. He shows vague intrigue but isn’t nearly as invested as the girls. 

“And the Doggy Rogers was dragged deep into the woods,” the leader growls, grinning sharply. “The hound’s teeth dug into his neck, tearing his skin and leaving his blood across the ground. And just when the Doggy Rogers was going to scream, the hound widened its jaw and—” 

“Reginald Wilson, what did I say about telling that story?!” 

Red groans, dropping his flashlight into his lap as his dad marches up to the group. 

His dad’s carrying a tray of marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers. He had argued against giving the kids more sugar tonight but was quickly overruled by his stubborn husband. 

_ “We’re on vacation, Sam,”  _ Riley had said when passing him the tray,  _ “the kids deserve to have a little bit of fun.”  _

“We were just having fun, dad!” Red argues defensively. 

His friend, Jeremy, swallows. All signs of boredom are wiped from his expression as he nods fervently and backs up his friend, “Yeah, Mr. Wilson. Plus, Darlene was the one who wanted him to tell us one.” 

Red’s sister, Darlene, puts her hands on her hips and yells, “No, I didn’t!” 

Her friend, Laura, mimics her actions and reiterates, “She didn’t, Jeremy.  _ You  _ just don’t want Mr. Wilson to tell mom and dad that you guys were trying to scare us again!” 

The kids start to argue. Darlene yelling at Red and Red yelling at Laura and Laura yelling at Jeremy and Jeremy yelling at Darlene until all their yells mash together to create a cacophony of voices. 

Sam groans, tilting his head back and pinching the bridge of his nose. He mutters to himself, “Why did I let Riley convince me that this was a good idea?”

He brings his head back forward, drops his hand from his nose, brings it to his mouth, pinches his lips, and whistles loud enough to startle the group into silence. 

The kids all turned to him. Their wide, owlish eyes unblinking, and their mouths hanging open. 

Sam puts his hand back onto the tray and uses his best dad voice. “I don’t care which one of you started it. I’m finishing it. No more ghost stories tonight. Now,” he passes the tray to Darlene, who takes it without question, “heat some marshmallows. Eat some s’mores. Talk about something  _ nice _ —” he sends a pointed look to Red, who ducks his head “—and get to bed. If I hear any more stories about hellhounds, I swear to God I will end this trip tomorrow. Do you understand me?”

The group responded in a mix of “yes, dad”s and “yes, Mr. Wilson”s. 

Sam grins brightly, “Good.” 

With that he turns around and heads back to the campsite, calling over his shoulder, “I want you all in the cabin in thirty minutes.” 

He chuckles to himself when he hears the children dramatically groan behind him. 

Just as he approaches the cabin, he figures it’s the perfect time to check in with a friend. 

He pulls his cellphone from his pants pocket and opens the favorites section of his address book. 

He finds the contact immediately and smiles softly to himself as he clicks call. 

There’s a tiny house on the outskirts of New Orleans. Its neighbors are acres away, but close enough that sometimes Steve and Bucky can wave to them when they’re out gardening or bringing in groceries. 

The inside of the house is furnished modestly. There’s a limp sofa, one coffee table, a kitchen with only the basic appliances, a small television, and a full bookshelf. 

The mantle above the fireplace is filled with pictures of friends and family; Sam and Riley with their kids, Peggy holding an old Madame Liberty, and a drawing Steve did of him and Bucky. 

Steve lounges on the couch as he sketches. His tongue pokes out of the side of his mouth. His brow is furrowed in concentration. His wide-rimmed glasses sit low on his nose. 

Bucky sits beside him, holding Steve’s legs in his lap. He has one arm leaning on the back of the couch, and he rests his cheek against his wrist as he fondly watches his husband work on a piece he’d been commissioned to complete. 

Steve, now physically older than Bucky, is beautiful with his fine crow’s feet and subtle laugh lines. His bones ache more often now, and his asthma sometimes gets the better of him, but Bucky wouldn’t have him any other way. 

Steve’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, rattling obnoxiously as it breaks the tranquil atmosphere. 

Bucky sighs and reluctantly leans forward to snatch Steve’s phone off the coffee table. He brings it up to his face and rolls his eyes once he sees who’s calling. 

He answers and brings the phone to his ear. 

“What do you want?” he grumbles. 

“Who is it?” Steve asks, his tone distracted as he focuses on his drawing. 

Instead of answering, Bucky thrusts the phone in Steve’s direction and grumbles, “For you.” 

Steve snatches the phone, still not looking away from his work as he answers, “Hello?” 

_ “Can you tell your husband to take a nap?”  _ Sam snaps from the other line. 

Steve cackles and nudges Bucky’s stomach with his foot. 

Bucky grumbles, pushing Steve’s foot away and crossing his arms to pout in silence. 

Steve still grins as he tells Sam, “He’s still mad about you tricking him into getting the mice out of your house.” 

_ “It was a real problem!”  _ Sam claims, defensive but Steve can tell he’s grinning.  _ “What, because they aren’t ‘real monsters’, I didn’t have a reason for concern?”  _

Steve chuckles. He puts his sketchbook on the table and tucks his feet beneath him. 

“How’s the vacation? You guys like the cabin?” Steve asks. 

_ “It’s good. Nice to get the kids out of the city. We got May Parker watching the restaurant, but Riley still calls every hour to check-in,”  _ Sam says.  _ “Thanks again for letting us borrow the cabin. And for, uh, cleaning the stuff out. It would be hard to explain to the kids why there’s a collection of machetes on the floor.”  _

“Sure,” Steve hums, “What did they think about the salt?” 

_ “The kids are too polite to say anything. But they did give it some weird looks.”  _

“Just tell them it’s for cleaning,” Steve suggests. 

He turns so he’s leaning against the back of the couch. He starts combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair. 

Bucky, who has since lost his sullenness, leans into Steve’s touch. 

_ “Anyway, I called to tell you something funny,”  _ Sam states. 

“Oh?” Steve prods, raising an eyebrow. 

_ “I just caught Red in the middle of telling ghost stories by the fire. Well, hellhound stories,”  _ Sam’s laughs crackle loudly through the line. 

“What?” Steve exclaims, sitting up as an amused grin stretches across his face. 

“Red kept saying the ‘Doggy Rogers’. Kid doesn’t even know it’s you!” Sam hoots, grin palpable through this voice. 

“Oh my God,” Steve laughs, throwing his head back. He smacks Bucky’s arm with the back of his hand and tells him, “the kids are telling hellhound stories. Apparently, the ‘Doggy Rogers’ is now a big part of it.” 

“Oh really?” Bucky laughs, all signs of annoyance washed away as his eyebrows shoot up. His cheeks round as he grins. “But Stevie, don’t they know?” 

Steve chuckles, tilting back as he asks, “Know what?” 

Bucky’s grin grows. “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as hellhounds.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support you've shown this story! I've enjoyed every comment I've had the pleasure of receiving, and I appreciate every kudo, subscription, and bookmark. 
> 
> This story has been in the works for over two years, and I'm so happy that I've finally been able to share it in its entirety with all of you. I hope you all have enjoyed this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Thank you all so much! 
> 
> Until next time,   
> Emily

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting one chapter every day until Halloween. 
> 
> See you all tomorrow for chapter one!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://blondieewritess.tumblr.com/)


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